Odds and Ends
by There Was A Silence
Summary: Being a teen is hard. So is being a parent. But being both is harder.
1. Happy Birthday

**So. This project is something that came on a complete and utter whim, so there's no excuse for it. All I hope is that you enjoy what you read and review at the end.**

**WARNING: I can say in total honesty that it is THE FLUFFIEST THING I'VE EVER WRITTEN. T.T It's given me CAVETIES, guys. No joke. (Well, yeah, it kind of is. Har har, eh? Aren't I hilarious? ...that was typed sarcasm, in case you couldn't tell.) Also, I don't wish to offend anyone seeing as I've never been in a teen parent situation, so heads up for probably a lot of inaccuracies and such that I'll probably ignore. It's fluffy and cute though, so hopefully that'll make up for it? Enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: APH is not and never will be mine. That's just how it goes.**

**...**

He had never seen something so beautiful.

And he had never been so afraid.

The bundle beyond the glass slept soundly, oblivious to anything, _everything_ outside the safety of four crib walls. Each time the bundle twitched, his breath caught. Each time the little nose scrunched, a teary smile lit his face. Each time the infinitely tiny chest took a second too long to rise for his liking, he swore the world was ending. And each time it rose again, the world was reborn once more.

He jerked so violently when the nurse scooped the bundle from the crib that he nearly cried right there. The rational part of his mind knew he had nothing to worry about; the nurse wouldn't hurt the tiny thing, but he couldn't help the protective growl that built up in his throat. And then, suddenly, she was walking toward him, bundle in arms, and he almost ran because he knew – he _knew_, dammit – what she was going to ask him.

"Would you like to hold him, Mr. Kirkland?"

And how could he?

Arthur Kirkland was barely sixteen years old; how could he possibly _ever_ be worthy of something so incredibly, impossibly precious? He couldn't be – he could _never_ be. So he honestly had no idea why he extended his arms anyway.

And then that bundle, that precious little cargo, was in his arms, so unbelievably small and fragile and pure that he didn't know what to do at first.

The nurse smiled knowingly as she positioned Arthur's hands correctly to support the little thing. Arthur didn't even object to being helped, didn't protest on his dignity's behalf and say he could figure it out himself - a testament to his shock.

"There." Once the bundle the bundle was secure in the blonde's grasp, the nurse carefully, slowly pulled the blanket away from the child's face for Arthur to see, and—

And Arthur's world stopped.

"…My God," A shaking hand came slowly, _slowly_ for God's sake, to trace the cheek of the most perfect thing in the world. "My God, he's so _beautiful_…"

His fingers gently ghosted over the boy's features – his nose, his closed, soft lashes, tiny pink lips, downy blond wisps of hair, back to his cheek – when the boy began to stir. "Ah…"

He looked to the nurse fearfully, unsure of what to do, and received only an amused smile in response. Well, _she_ clearly was of no help at all. After shooting her a withering glare, he nervously returned his gaze to the infant in his arms.

Only to find two curious blue eyes staring back at him.

"Ah… I… Um…?"

The child was unperturbed by Arthur's incoherency and blinked up at him in wide-eyed wonder. Arthur, for his part, had forgotten how to breathe.

"H… H-Hello," He choked out at last, completely oblivious to the nurse's giggling as a smile, warm and adoring, bloomed on his lips, "Hello, love… It's good to meet you. God, it's so _wonderful_ to meet you…"

He had no idea how long it was he remained there, pressing butterfly kisses and whispering nothings to the most precious thing in the world, before the nurse finally spoke again. "I didn't quite catch his name, Mr. Kirkland, if you don't mind…?"

And when at last Arthur answered, he didn't even look up, gaze locked lovingly on those endless blue eyes before him.

"Alfred. His name is Alfred."

…

Francis was sure he was going to hell.

Because he should have hated this child. This small, sleeping infant, without a care in the world… he should have rejected it. He should have been stronger, should have loathed, _repelled_ this baby, the one that had, with its breath, taken away the air from the lungs of his most precious person, the beat from her heart with its own.

People weren't supposed to die in childbirth anymore. But Jeanne had, his world, the love of his life _had_, and it was this child's fault. He should have abandoned it. Should have ignored it. Should have walked away and never looked back. He should have… He should have…

He _loved_ this child.

"Matthew…" The tears were coming again, and he rocked the baby with a tenderness and love and overwhelming guilt that it nearly consumed him. "_Mon petit, mon amour… Mon Matthieu._" He nuzzled his nose against his son's cheek, trying to quell his sobs. A conversation returned to him, and he shook harder.

_" 'Matthieu', my dear? Are you sure? Napoleon is such a more _dashing_ name, non?"_

_"Our son will perfectly dashing with the name Matthew, Francis. I think it's lovely."_

It had been the only thing they'd disagreed on regarding their future son. At seventeen Francis was married and a soon-to-be father, ostracized from his family, but he couldn't care less. He knew what passion was; what puppy love and summer flings were, because he'd had them all. But this, what he'd had with Jeanne… it had been different. He knew it every time their hands touched, every time their eyes met. Every time they bickered or bantered, every time she spoke. He knew it every time she looked over at him with her beautiful violet eyes, and smiled. It had been love.

When he'd learned of Jeanne's pregnancy, he'd married her in a heartbeat; they'd had full intention to wed anyway, so what was a few years in advance? Well, apparently a lot to Francis; family. Rich, high class marquis' – they hadn't approved of Jeanne to begin with, coming from a lover class family. She had made it to Francis; prestigious school through scholarship alone, through hard work and intellect.

She was nothing like any other any other girl Francis had been with, She was witty and charming, clever and strong, proud yet modest. She never feared to speak her mind, nor did she ever back down from a challenge. And still, she had been kind and gentle. She was perfect. She was everything Francis had been looking for, and when his family had demanded he leave her lest her status and child bring a disgrace to the family, he had outright refused.

There had been no ill consequence, so to speak; his parents had let him keep his shares and inheritance on the condition that he got the fuck out of their lives and _never_ came back. Francis had been all too happy to oblige.

Disowned and alone, Francis and Jeanne had moved to Quebec, Canada to live with Jeanne's parents – they had recently relocated there – until they got on their feet and could find their own place. It was there they'd made their home, and excitedly awaited their newborn's arrival. Jeanne had always had a weak constitution, but they had been assured by every doctor that it would be fine. The worst they had to worry about had been their son's name.

Jeanne had wanted Matthew. Francis… not so much. He had pushed for Napoleon, or Jacques, or Francois. But not something like _Matthew_, so incredibly _un_-French, like his childhood enemy (friend) Arthur who he now coincidentally lived closer to. But Jeanne had been resolute. She had insisted that in the end, Francis would agree with her, and their son would go by the name Matthew. Francis had laughed and shook his head.

But it seemed Jeanne always got what she wanted in the end.

"My precious Matthew… He's perfect, Jeanne…"

Because now there was no name more beautiful than that.

…

_Filthy Spaniard._

_Worthless scum._

_Orphen brat._

The names Romulus had heard them call the boy carried much worse. And Antonio Fernandez Carriedo had always taken it all with a smile.

When Romulus first stumbled upon him, it had been while navigating through the high class streets of Italy he called home. It was a bit fancy for his tastes, but he could afford the best, so why not? As he was walking back from the only fresh produce market anywhere near home – it was far away and for commoners, but that why he liked it; the friendly, down to earth atmosphere – when he passed an alley harboring a gang of young Italian hoodlums, laughing and jeering. Which wasn't really uncommon, and Romulus might have walked away if the biting words hadn't become clearer.

_"Fucking Spanish dog!"_

_"Makes sense the bastard would protect one of his own."_

_"Bark for us, mutt! Serenade us! Torro, torro!"_

Only then did Romulus realize they were attacking a young boy.

After they scattered (Romulus may have been older, but he was still strong and pretty damn terrifying when he wanted to be) he approached the crouched figure in the corner of the alley, as slowly and carefully as possible.

"Are you all right, son?"

No answer. He didn't even twitch.

Romulus frowned; perhaps the hoodlums had done more damage to the poor boy than he'd originally thought. But just as he reached out to shake his shoulder, the head, previously hung low and lifeless, lifted, and Romulus found himself staring into tired, weary, yet _warm_ and _grateful_ emerald eyes. Eyes that matched an impossibly bright smile, despite the blood and bruising, already beginning to swell.

_"Gracias, Se__ñor," _He paused, blinking thoughtfully. "_Ah, lo siento… Grazie… Signore?"_

He smiled sheepishly, and Romulus could only stare, dumbfounded. The kid couldn't have been above fifteen, not to mention he had just got the shit beat out of him. Not to mention he was Spanish, and given that this really wasn't a Spaniard friendly neighborhood, this was likely to happen again. So how the _hell_ could he smile like that?

After a moment of unabashed staring, Romulus finally shook his head and forced a wide grin. When he spoke, it was in fluid Spanish. "It's no problem, boy. Come, let's get you cleaned up."

The wounded teen gaped, completely baffled, before nodding vigorously. Romulus puffed a little with pride; it had been years since he'd spoken that language, and damn right it was impressive. He watched the boy uncurl and stand on shaky legs, and found himself surprised to see a small bundle in his arms.

"What's that?"

The boy paused for a brief moment, protectively, before opening his arms to reveal a small, dirty, whimpering puppy. At the older man's confused expression, he said quietly, "They were hurting him… kicking him, and stuff. So I stepped in, and…" He gestured to his worn, bruised body with an amicable smile, "Well, you know the rest. I would've fought back, but then I'd have had t put the dog down, and they would've gone after it again."

As the boy fussed over his tiny charge, Romulus was once again reduced to staring. _This boy_, he thought as he watched the young Spaniard laugh at the warm tongue now lapping his bruised cheek, _is really something else._

By the time he had taken the boy back, whose name he had learned was Antonio, and had the servers clean him up and dress his wounds, he had made his decision. Speaking with the boy, he learned he had a passion for tomatoes and a green thumb. Before the day was out, Romulus ha found himself a gardener (later he would swear an brag that Antonio was the best gardener he'd ever had, and it would be the truth).

In a few months time, Antonio was a part of the household, loved by all the servants and even befriending the stuffy Austrian, Roderich – Romulus' young and talented personal musician. It had taken some warming up, but when Roderich learned that Antonio could play the guitar and knew some classic Spanish composers, the two seemed to get along much better.

But by the time the next year rolled around, Antonio sixteen and Roderich seventeen, change fell upon the manor. In the form of Romulus' two newborn grandchildren.

Their names were Lovino and Feliciano.

Lovino was the elder by minutes, and while nearly identical, his eyes were a bright, clear green, the emerald hue on par with Antonio's own, while his twin's were a warm amber-brown. Romulus had brought them home with no warning, and the first he presented them to were his young musician and gardener.

Upon hearing the news, Roderich's deep violet eyes lit with suspicion, but he said nothing. Rarely did his employer keep secrets, but at that moment with a mixture of pride and love and deep, hard sadness on Romulus; face, Roderich kept silent.

He was mildly impressed (not that he'd ever show it) that Antonio didn't push the matter – as to why two infants had suddenly been put in their Grandfather's care instead of their parents with little to no warning – given that the Spaniard was generally oblivious and unintentionally blunt. He had his moments of true empathy, though (which was not to say he lacked sympathy; his sense of kindness and goodhearted ways could rival that gentle Lithuanian Roderich had met a year back). However, there was a chance this incident of sensitivity could be credited to the fact that Antonio was absolutely infatuated with the twins.

And it was clear; the Spanish teen was smitten. The first child he'd locked eyes with had been Lovino, and he hadn't been able to tear his gaze from him.

"Would you like to hold him?" Romulus chuckled in amusement. He had to admit, he was impressed – Lovino had been, out of the two of them, the problem child. He had yet to stop wailing, couldn't stay still for anyone, slept fitfully, and so far, had not found a single person his tiny self seemed to be able to stand, Romulus included.

Feliciano, in comparison, was an angel; gentle and bright, always laughing or smiling, able to capture the attention and hearts of everyone who set eyes on him. It wasn't hard to see the beginnings of a troubled brotherhood of jealousy and neglect, and Romulus' heart sunk for his grandsons. And then, of course, there was Antonio.

The boy never ceased to amaze him. While he had expressed his affection for Feliciano (very _loudly_ expressed, much to Roderich's chagrin), he seemed taken with his green eyed brother. He held the boy with a tenderness Romulus had never seen, laughing instead of scowling when Lovino tried to push him away or pulled his hair, tied back in a low, loose ribbon. He sung him soft Spanish lullabies when the child's cries grew to those born of weariness, and before they knew it, Lovino was sleeping soundly, cradled in Antonio's arms.

"Wow," Romulus said, whistling low. "That's never happened before. He hasn't even done that for _me_,"

Antonio just laughed bashfully, rocking the slumbering Italian lovingly. When, a few hours later, both the teen and the baby were passed out on the couch, Roderich sighed and Romulus smirked.

"I apologize for him, sir. Falling asleep like that, when you just brought them home today…" He clicked his tongue in disapproval, not noticing Romulus' grin as the older Italian reached over and mussed his immaculate chocolate hair. Roderich squawked in offense, quickly stepping back and huffing.

"If you're referring to the fact that I'd have liked to actually spend some time with my grandsons," Romulus started casually, ignoring the musician's glare (at least, Roderich _assumed_ he was being ignored; Romulus was just as oblivious as Antonio sometimes, so it was exceedingly hard to tell whether he was pretending not to take notice or if he actually didn't.) "Then I'd have to point out that you've been hogging Feliciano all day."

He howled with laughter at Roderich's furious blush and stutter, clutching the child closer in an incriminating way. He sniffed haughtily, flipping his nose, before extending his arms and offering his equally unconscious bundle back. Romulus couldn't help but chuckle as he reclaimed his grandson – try as Roderich might, it was obvious to see his reluctance to return the infant. Both teens were head over heels for the two new additions to the house.

And Romulus had his answer.

Answer to what, Roderich and Antonio wouldn't know until two short weeks later. When a speeding driver turned a corner too fast, skidding out of control, and almost ran headlong into a young girl. When Romulus pushed her out of the way, only to get him himself.

When Romulus, indestructible, loud, loved by all Romulus, died.

Only then did the two grief-stricken teens find out, by a serious German man, Romulus' lawyer – and, he reluctantly said and with more sadness than he would admit to, his best friend – that the day after he brought the twins home, Romulus had finalized the will. And that, Antonio for Lovino and Roderich likewise for Feliciano, they had been named the guardians respectively and separately should anything happen to him.

The German man, despite thinking the move irresponsible and having tried to talk Romulus out of it at the time, fought hard for his friend's last wishes, and before Antonio, only sixteen, knew it, he held Lovino in his arms with a new title to his name. He kissed the boy's forehead softly, a sad smile on his face as little hands tried to push him away:

_Father._

…

At sixteen, Gilbert Beilschmidt, personally, thought his mother was too old to be having kids.

"I'm just sayin'," He would start, "You're a little past your prime, ma – ow!"

At which point he would promptly get smacked over the head by his uptight nazi of a father while his mother would just laugh good naturedly.

That didn't stop him from openly stating his opinions on his mother's pregnancy, though. In fact, the only that seemed to shut the 'awesome' Gilbert Beilschmidt up was the delivery itself – his father had been caught in traffic, so he was to wait with his mother until he arrived.

Gilbert, for the first time, was rendered speechless.

(And then he passed out.)

(Luckily, his dad had made it in the end, so Gilbert's unconscious presence wasn't sorely missed.)

The silverette was star-struck. He spent as much time as he could with the new baby (much to his parents' amusement), Ludwig, who he affectionately dubbed West (also much to his parents. Confusion, yes, but amusement nonetheless). He bragged about his little brother's perfection to anyone who would listen, neighbors, friends, strangers that made the mistake of commenting on the baby's cuteness only to get an earful of Gilbert for the next fifteen to twenty minutes.

The prime victim of his extreme pride was his childhood frienemy Elizaveta, who had been in Hungary visiting family when the baby had actually come. He called her constantly, just to give her an update on what Ludwig had done recently. He was especially excited when, because his parents had to fly to Rome for the funeral of an old family friend (Gilbert did feel bad about that; his dad seemed kind of torn up about it, which was unusual for the normally stoic man), and to settle some matters of said friend's will, he got to stay and watch Ludwig for a week.

His mother had left him money for baby formula, and his father had drilled every precaution and rule to follow so nothing bad happened. Elizaveta, despite her adamant complaints to Gilbert about how much he wasted her time, would always smile when he called; he'd never sounded more happy.

Which was why it worried her immensely when he suddenly stopped calling.

She waited a day, hoping the line had just been temporarily disconnected. The silence was unnerving when she was used to him calling every couple of hours and texting even more often, but surely he'd call soon. Nothing to worry about. The baby was fine. _Gilbert_ was fine. Everything was fine.

But when he still didn't call, and the pressure got to her enough to pick up the phone to call him instead, and he still didn't answer, then the fear took hold. The line was fine, and she doubted he'd gone anywhere; for one thing, his parents were supposed to be in Rome – or were they? If she remembered right, then they should have been home a day or two ago. Either way, even if he had gone somewhere, he kept his phone on him at all times, and always answered her texts. So what had happened?

She called more, convinced that something was terribly wrong. On her fourth call in an hour, as she was packing her things – _no_, she was not going home early because she was worried, she was just… homesick. Yeah. – he picked up.

"_Hello_?"

Elizaveta froze; she hadn't honestly expected him to answer, and it was a losing battle to try and keep the relief from her voice.

"Gilbert! God, you idiot, where have you been—?"

_"Elizaveta."_

She was pulled to a halt at the sound of his voice. He laughed on the other end, and she cringed at the sound, still speechless.

_"Everything's fine, okay? So you can cool it with the calling. That ring's gonna give me a migraine, and my awesome doesn't _do_ migraines."_

"Gilbert—"

_"Everything's fine, Eliza. I've just been busy with West. Alrighty? You enjoy your 'family time' or whatever other sissy stuff you're doing. Bye!"_

The line went dead, and Elizaveta was left staring, dumbfounded, at the phone. Gilbert had sounded… fine, she supposed. Bright, loud, obnoxious… Just like he always did. There was nothing to worry about. He was doing well. She didn't have to go home earlier, after all; she could relax, knowing Gilbert was fine.

She was on a flight to the States within an hour.

Deep down, while she would never admit it aloud, she knew it was because she was so finely attuned to Gilbert's feelings. She'd known him as long as she could remember, and had always been able to tell when something was wrong, even when some of the adults couldn't. And something in Gilbert's voice when he spoke, something in his laugh… it sounded so _wrong_ she wanted to cry. And when she got back, and learned what had happened from the neighbors, she did.

Gilbert's parents had died in a plane crash.

She sat on his couch in silence for twenty minutes as he moved about the – too quiet, too empty – house. He made her coffee, went through at least five cigarettes (all outside or out the window, far from the baby), and walked Ludwig around, soothing him into a deep, peaceful slumber. It was one thing to hear it on the phone, but another completely to see it in person.

Elizaveta had never seen such _gentleness_ and _warmth_ than in the way Gilbert held his brother. His hands became loving, soft – she hadn't even known his hands were capable of such tenderness. She saw it in the little things he did; the way he smiled, just barely, whenever he looked at the child, the soothing motion of brushing back feather soft locks of blond hair.

Once he was sure Ludwig was sleeping soundly, Gil came and sat gingerly beside her, careful not to wake him. She took the child when he offered, allowing him to position her hands despite knowing perfectly well how to properly support a baby.

"He's gorgeous, Gilbert,"

The first words said between them, and he smiled – it didn't reach his eyes. "Yeah. He's _my_ brother after all." Gilbert traced a long, pale finger across a chubby cheek warmly. They lapsed into another silence, he watching his brother, she watching him. And then, at last, even knowing the answer—

"Are you okay?"

"Me? Yeah, I'm awesome. A little tired 'cause West finds it fun to wake me up every twenty minutes, the brat, but when I get used to it I'll be fine—"

"Gilbert." His voice broke and faded when she said his name, when her free hand came and cupped his cheek, gently brought his head up until their eyes met. "You know what I mean. Are _you_ okay?"

Red eyes fluttered shut and he breathed deeply through his nose, holding, holding until it hurt, until his lungs felt like they were going to burst, but it _didn't matter_ and he smiled something hollow and fake and _broken_ as he leaned into her touch.

"No. No, I'm… I'm not, Eliza."

Elizaveta's heart broke.

"What do I do…? Vati and mom are gone, and… and I'll never get them back."

"Gilbert…"

"I love West, but I can't take care of him. I'm a delinquent; I'm a screw up. West was mom and dad's second chance at a good kid, and now they're gone and I'm alone and I don't know what to do because they didn't name any guardians and he deserves better than me because I'm _just not good enough_—"

She hugged him then.

It was one armed since she was still holding Ludwig, and kind of painful and awkward because she had to twist to get a hold of him, but she wouldn't dream of letting go for the world. Her arm tightened around him when he stiffened, and for a terrifying moment she was sure he would pull away, far away, where she couldn't reach him – but then he was returning the embrace. A moment later and he began shaking, burying his face in her shoulder as suppressed sobs racked his frame.

"W-What do I _do_, Eliza? Vati and mom… are gone. They're _gone_. What if… _Gott_, what if they take Ludwig, too? What if we're separated? They can't take him too, they – they _can't_—"

"They won't," She rubbed his back soothingly, kissed the top of his head, anything to keep those demons plaguing him at bay. "They won't, Gilbert. You'll keep him and be a great big brother, and I'll be there to help you if you need it. But they won't take him away. I promise."

And all Gilbert could do was nod until he believed it, because he'd break otherwise, and neither of them could afford that now. So they remained, holding each other together even as the rest of the world fell apart, moved on, without them.

Between them, Ludwig slept soundly.

…

Yao Wang was eldest.

His brother was next, Maddox, younger by two years. A year below him was Yao's only sister, Mei. When Yao was only seven, his parents were shot in a bank hold up when their family was relocated to America.

Yao was still learning English when he and his siblings were thrown into the foster care system and fell through the cracks.

Six months later they met the newest addition to their broken family: a small boy, energetic and smiley despite the fact that his parents were lost to an earthquake back in Korea, while he was sent over for a vacation with his uncle. The same uncle that, upon hearing of his sister's and her husband's death, fell to the drink and abandoned the child, who was soon dumped into foster care with a Chinese boy and his siblings.

Yao, after what he and his young sister and brother had been through, especially after the first half a year in an abusive home as such, was not quick to trust. Even so, by the time Yao had turned seventeen, Yong Soo was just as much his younger sibling whom he would die to protect as Maddox and Mei were.

And it was in that time, only a month after his seventeenth birthday, that Yao met the last addition to their family: Kiku.

Kiku Honda was an infant, not even a year old. His father had been a hard working businessman, his mother a successful chef. However, when Mr. Honda died in a shooting similar to the one in which Yao had lost his parents, Mrs. Honda had not been able to cope. So one night, after putting baby Kiku to sleep in the next room, she called the police and very calmly asked for their assistance. With that settled, she sat down, put a pistol in her mouth, and pulled the trigger.

Kiku was crying for hours in his crib before the police showed up. When they found the tragedy, they found Mrs. Honda's will as well, neatly waiting for them on the coffee table. It stated that everything went to Kiku, and that Kiku himself would be cared for by the only family they had in the States – a very distant cousin, who happened to be the foster mother to Yao and his siblings.

The state, in the end, agreed that he should go to family, and was soon put in the care of the distant cousin and her husband. Which, really, meant Kiku was put in the care of Yao.

For two years Yao had been in this house – the longest of all their stays, as they normally got bounced to another within the first few months – and never once had either of their guardians done any parenting.

Well, when one thought about it seriously, none of their guardians ever had. Yao, since the moment his parents died, had been forced to fill the role required of him for his family's survival. That, of course, included this place – not home, Yao hadn't been home since he was seven years old and in China – where the woman, Mrs. Honda's relative, was a thieving, neglecting junkie, and her husband was an abusive drunk.

Yao, once again, had found a job to feed and clothe his siblings, and hopefully raise and protect them from their guardians' rages. He had been fully intent on clearing out the moment he turned eighteen, taking his family with him; yes, there would be a search, but only a half-assed one and Yao was clever enough to outwit even a skilled search party anyway. And then Kiku had come, and Yao had been forced to change his plans.

In the beginning, they had been enraged – how could the social workers place an innocent, defenseless _infant_ with those two? It was a crime; it was heinous. It was soon clear that if it had not been for Yao and his siblings the boy wouldn't have made it, and even they were pushing it. Yao had been forced to grow up, fast and hard – several bruises and welts were proof of it – but this child had a chance at something better… as long as he didn't stay there.

When the man, drunker than usual, flew into a rage at Kiku's crying and nearly attacked the boy (he only didn't because Yong Soo, who had been holding Kiku at the time, refused to hand him over and managed to call Yao, Maddox and Mei before he was forced to comply – his eye was still black for that) Yao had made his decision.

That night, with Yao seventeen, Maddox fifteen, Mei and Yong Soo fourteen and Kiku less than a year old, the five children stole away, never to return.

For a few days they squatted in Kiku's old apartment – it had yet to be rented out, and the teens managed to pity the super into giving them some time there. Once they were mildly recuperated, they left again, and using money Yao and Maddox had been saving for years, managed to rent a small apartment far away.

They were safe. Weren't they? Were they truly safe? Had he succeeded? Yao hadn't slept in days, the anxiety was so strong.

But then again.

When was the last time Yao had truly slept either, had dreamt of something other than pain and loss? He couldn't remember. But that didn't matter, he supposed; dreams of pandas and bamboo forests at home and nights laughing with his siblings were for children – for those who could _afford_ to be children. Not for Yao. He didn't want such dreams anyway.

Yao now only wanted to sleep.

"He'll be okay, Yao. We all will."

Yao had been startled by the statement. It was their first night in the new place, and he was rocking a crying Kiku to sleep after waking up in the middle of the night. He'd thought the others had been long asleep; but as always, his siblings found ways to surprise him. Tonight it was Maddox.

With Kiku quieting down, Yao carefully squatted down beside his first brother (there was only enough room for two to squeeze on the bed, and Maddox and Yao had volunteered for the floor with the blankets they'd taken from the foster home).

"I know that, Maddox. What would make you say something like that, aru?"

Maddox said nothing, reaching over with long, elegant fingers to swipe through Kiku's silken black hair. Yao smiled minutely; he'd taken to the boy immediately having always had a soft spot for cute things. In his sleep, Kiku's grip tightened on the small panda plushie Yao had bought him, and his smile widened. Kiku, at least, should deserve a childhood.

"We will be alright now. You've done well."

Again Yao started, and looked up to meet cool, golden eyes. Maddox's expression was as collected as usual, but there was an unbridled confidence in his striking optics. Yao's smile morphed, the corners of his mouth pulling down.

"Why would you—"

"Because even you need to hear it sometimes. You've been worried for him – you haven't let him go since we left – and you've been worried for all of us. But you needn't worry now._ We're together now, and we will be fine, Brother_."

At Maddox's sudden switch to Chinese, Cantonese even, Yao's eyes widened. After a moment, he swallowed, and nodded.

"_We will be fine_." His grip on Kiku tightened, and Maddox hummed reassuringly. "_Starting now… We will be fine_."

For the first time in ten years, Yao slept peacefully, his family at his side and little brother in his arms.

_At last._

…

**Done. This seriously screwed me up to write, it was so... NOT tragedy, but hopefully you enjoyed it. It's just a fun project for me, despite the total inaccuracies, so I really hope no one takes offense and will just treat it as an unrealistic teen-parency story, because that's what it is, and while I'll try to do some baby research and whatnot, chances are I'll fail miserably and continue to spew random fluffy crap. So... yeah. XD**

**A giant thanks to everyone who actually finished this chapter. I know it's long, and I apologize. This was the introductory chapter, where you meet all the different teens and their respective charges BEFORE they meet each other, so it was necessary. (And for those who care, worry not, Ivan will come in due course. XD) I'll only continue it if you guys want me to though, because yes, I AM that selfish, so please, please review? **

**The plot will start in a few chapters, and until then, we get to see some of the child/parent milestones, such as walking, talking etc. Next chapter is: diaper changing. XD Sounds like a fun time, no? Hopefully I'll see you all there, then! (but ONLY IF I GET REVIEWS!) Pathetic author is done now.**

**There was a silence**


	2. Diaper Changing

**GAAAAH I am SO SORRY this is so late! I know I promised a lot of you guys that it would be out like a week ago, but I have reasons! I was just about to finish up the chapter when our power went out, and when we got it back on, I only had a few hours before I had to leave for hardcore _band camp _for five days. With absolutely no internet. DX Ugggggh. Anyways, I'm back now with chapter two, so enjoy! Thanks for being so patient, and please review!**

**...**

Infants, it was said, were completely and utterly pure. They were innocent – time and the world might corrupt and change them, but when a child was born, and for those first few months they were the definition of angelic purity.

Bull _shit_.

"Alright, you bloody demon," Arthur panted, staring down the positively _malicious_ blue gaze, "We are ending this here and _now_."

They had been at this for forty five minutes and counting, and Arthur was officially Fed Up. (This state of mind had been going on for fifteen of said minutes now, and had yet to have any monumental effect on the situation.) He was so incredibly frustrated that he was seriously on brink of calling in backup from Francis, and that was something his British pride _could not_ handle. Being bested by an infant, sure. But admitting that he could not _change a diaper_ to _Francis Bonnefoy?_

No way in _hell_—

_"Oui oui?"_

…Oh.

How the hell did _that_ happen?

"What do you want, Frog?"

_"Ah, Artie mon cher! I do hate to remind you, but _you_ called _me_."_

"…Goddammit…"

_"Yes yes, lament the loss of your pride as a stuffy English old man—"_

"I am _sixteen_, you bloody twat,"

"—_Now, to what do I owe the British pleasure?"_

Arthur paused in his head-banging against the changing table, trying to think of a proper excuse. When his ever faithful wit gave a hearty 'screw you' and abandoned him, he sighed; he might as well be honest.

Holding Alfred's hand absently as he cleared his throat, he finally managed to stutter out, "I… I n-need… your, ahem, your help."

_"Ah? Well it must be serious if you swallowed your pride and called me. Go on,"_

Now Arthur busied himself with studying the smallness of Alfred's hands. This whole 'asking for help' business was really more trouble than it should have been. "U-um… well, you see, I… er…"

_"Eloquent this morning, aren't we?"_

"Shut up! I… I need help with… With_… withchangingdiapers_…"

_"What was that? I did not catch that last part, mon ami."_

"Cha… pers…"

_"Pardon moi?"_

"Changing diapers, you damned insolent Frog! I need help because Alfred is being a wretched brat and not letting me change him! Is that clear enough for you?"

The stunned pause was long for Arthur to fully reflect on that little outburst, and then proceed to slam his skull against the table with renewed fervor while Alfred giggled at his father's antics. Just short of a concussion, the Frenchman on the other line finally seemed to find his voice, deciding to use his vocal chords by promptly laughing his ass off. The _bastard._

_"Ah, my adorable Sourcils, you never cease to amuse. Isn't that right, mon petit d'érable?"_

The genuine warmth in Francis' tone during the second half of that sentence quirked the corner Arthur's mouth up. It was incredibly, horribly rare to hear now, that warmth; Arthur had tried to elicit it himself from his friend after Jeanne's death, and had failed. Francis barely laughed, barely smiled for real anymore. They would banter, sure, but behind some unseen veil was a jagged tearing agony in everything Francis did, and Arthur couldn't seem to find anyway to get to it. His hopes had been dwindling drastically for his friend when he first heard the voice.

Arthur had yet to meet Francis' son Matthew in person, but he had learned quickly what a miracle the child was. _Like Alfred_, he thought with a smile, giving the tiny fingers a gentle squeeze. Arthur had been speaking to Francis a little over a week ago when he first heard it. He had been trying to arrange a get together with the Frenchman and their sons; while Francis seemed to be resisting the idea of doing anything ('other than mourning' were the unspoken words) Arthur, through speaking to their teen constantly over the phone and online for the past two months, trying to be of comfort, knew Francis needed this. To get out and consciously know someone was there for him. That knowledge, that there was somebody physically there beside you in case you needed them, could work wonders.

But Francis had been stubborn in his solitude. He barely even spoke to his in-laws, stricken with their own grief, because the sight of each other brought up too much pain. If Arthur could just get him out of that house eating him alive with it's memories, then maybe…

_"You should bring Matthew. I'm sure Alfred would love a playmate,"_

He had said it as a last effort; something he'd pulled from the top of his head, and regretted it immediately. Their sons were barely two months old – such an effort at friendship would be wasted on them. So the thoughtful pause on the other line surprised him, and Francis' eventual, reluctant answer even more so.

_"I suppose… Mathieu would do well to see another child…" _And then, so gentle and loving that Arthur did a double-take at the receiver, _"Perhaps, mon chou? You and papa shall go visit Arthur…?"_

_That voice_. That _resemblance_ of happiness. It was what Arthur had been fruitless in retrieving, and here, the smallest, most delicate thing had…

_Well_. Arthur glanced down at the hand within his, less than half its size. He should know a thing or two about the wonders of such small things.

Since then, if Arthur listened carefully, he could catch that voice – Francis use it only when speaking to his son – and at least know that, on some level, Francis would be okay.

_"Ah, if you really are so pathetic Arthur, then I suppose we have no choice, oui Mathieu? We shall be there soon."_

Arthur blinked. Then blinked again. Huh. That was easier than expected.

"Um… Well. Splendid, then." He coughed, "When can I expect you? Friday, Saturday, I can manage until—"

_"How about in an hour, an hour and a half?"_

"I – excuse me?"

_"Yes, you're excused."_ Francis chuckled, and the static signified that he was moving._ "You forget, mon ami –_ I am filthy stinking rich_. That is the phrase, non?"_

Arthur opened and shut his mouth several times, scowling at his son when he laughed at his expression. And, of course, after applying light pressure to the tiny palm, he only laughed _harder_.

"Dear God, there is no _winning_ against you,"

_"Hm?"_

"Ah, Francis – no, I was just talking to my demonic son."

_"I see. Well, good luck then in your futile fight against a two month old. We can only hope you'll survive until our arrival. Adieu until then, Sourcils."_

"God speed, Frog."

Flipping the phone shut, Arthur gave an exasperated sigh, resting his forehead on the table. This was way more trouble than it was worth. Why was he trying to help that frog again? Because they were friends?

"Pah. Rubbish – I'm only doing this because Alfred should have a friend."

His pride had taken too many hits today; it wouldn't allow him to admit to friendship just yet, even if it was laughing in his face. Just like Alfred was. The brat.

Said brat was now extending his arms toward him, reaching with tiny fingers to tap his cheeks and nose. Arthur couldn't help but smile, irritation evaporating instantaneously; he tilted his head up to kiss the palms as they brushed his lips, and Alfred laughed, delighted. God, that boy had a beautiful smile. No teeth yet, but he was by far the _happiest_ baby Arthur had ever met or seen. The Gerber baby had nothing on Alfred.

Arthur would never admit it, but he would do anything at all just to see his boy smile, brighter than the sun.

In a considerably better mood, the blond stood and stretched, still smiling. He didn't notice as Alfred's reaching got a little more desperate. The child whined a little, aching to be held. At the sound, Arthur looked down, only to be met with wide baby blues filling with tears. Alfred began to hiccup dangerously, and Arthur yelped as he hurried to pick him up before the dam broke, but it was too late.

Alfred was wailing at the top of his lungs before Arthur could do anything but panic. "Ah, there there, don't cry,"

Scooping him up, the Englishman berated himself for not being quick enough. He pressed an apologetic kiss to the boy's temple, and then his nose, rocking him gently. "Shh, it's alright love, it's okay…" Guilt permeated his heart as Alfred continued to sob, and he held him closer.

He supposed every father felt like this – where he loved Alfred's happiness and smiles, and loathed any sadness he might feel. Of course it was impossible, and perhaps it was his own child-like naivety – _because no matter how many times he tells himself otherwise, he's still just a child_ – but he never wanted Alfred to feel any pain, any sorrow. And each time he did, Arthur had failed him.

Reaching over, he grabbed the familiar brown coat and wrapped his son in it; he was banking on the hope that since he had just relieved himself, he wouldn't soil the precious jacket. This particular piece of clothing always seemed to calm Alfred, although he knew why – it was understandable. It was, after all, the only thing left of the boy's mother's. The only thing she'd left behind.

"Shh, there, it's alright…" He smiled, relieved, as Alfred's cries began to hush and soften. Still rocking him gently as he paced about the room, Arthur, in the quiet comfort of solitude shared only with his boy, began to sing.

_Blackbird singing in the dead of night_

_Take these broken wings and learn to fly_

He didn't know any real lullabies; his parents, for the few years they had been there, had never once sung to any of their children. He'd been raised by his brothers; namely the eldest, Scott. He had never gotten along well with him – as a boy, Scott and his friends liked to bully and pick on him. Sometimes his two other brothers, Ira and Wallace, joined in as well.

But there were times when Scott and Ira beat up the neighborhood kids that mugged or hurt him, saying that _they_ were the only ones that could mess with little Artie. And then there were the even fewer nights when Scott would go a step further. On those evenings, when Arthur had been beaten particularly bad by some ruthless teenagers with nothing better to do, Scott would gather his weeping younger brother into his arms and sing him to sleep, voice soft and soothing and gentle.

Scott had spent most of his childhood years, before Arthur was born, in the green of Scotland, and his speech and voice were tinted in that unique accent. Arthur had always found that quirk comforting, especially when his brother would let his guard down and sang to him, always the same thing – The Beatles. The only part of England, Scott often said, he could stand.

Ira and Wallace were never told about those songs. It was only when Arthur went to the rundown park to cry in peace and Scott, a few hours later, came to pick him up. Hell, Arthur wouldn't even be surprised if Scott himself didn't remember – surely they meant nothing to him, just a convenient way to get his kid brother to shut up. But they were precious memories Arthur kept locked away, close to his heart – even if he would never admit that, to himself or anyone else.

Anyone but Alfred.

_Blackbird singing in the dead of night_

_Take these sunken eyes and learn to see_

So he sang on, nuzzling his nose to a soft cheek when eyelids began to droop over eyes blue enough to shame the sky. He inhaled deeply the child's sweet scent. He smelt like summer, like sunshine.

_All your life_

His boy. His own dear, darling little blackbird. His Alfred.

_You were only waiting for this moment to be free._

…

The jet was due to touch down in ten minutes and Francis was _still_ trying not to give in to the urge to _turn the hell around_.

He wasn't stupid; it was plain to see that Arthur was trying to lift his spirits with this meeting, as he had been for weeks. And really, Francis knew he should accept – it really would be good for him to get out of that place, but a part of him, the dark, all-consuming part, didn't _want_ to get better. Didn't _want_ to be helped, didn't _want_ to be saved. Because if he started to heal, then he'd be leaving Jeanne behind. And he couldn't bear that thought.

Eventually, the voice of reason wormed in, scolding him for being so cold and dismissive toward Arthur. He really was putting himself out there for Francis' sake; so awkward it was endearing, he was really disregarding his pride, and they both knew how hard it was for the Briton to do _that_. Francis truly did appreciate his efforts and on more than one occasion had tried to accept his invitations… but at the last moment Jeanne would smile behind his eyes, and it would take all his strength just to force out a 'no' and hang up before stumbling to his son's crib to sob. It was Matthew, in the end, that had been the final factor in the end of Francis; isolation.

"_Strength_, Matthew… Please, give me strength…"

He couldn't count how many times he'd whispered those words to the now sleeping bundle in his arms. In a different time wine had been his condolence, and then Jeanne, with her butterfly touches and lilac eyes and sunshine smile. And now… now it was Matthew. Matthew, whose eyes matched his mother's. Matthew, who smelt so faintly of everything good and pure in the world, with a lingering trace of maples. Matthew, who fit so perfectly in his arms, who smiled beautifully. Who cried softly, not loudly, only when Francis did, and only smiled again once his papa had.

It was only Matthew, dozing in his arms, that kept Francis from retreating now. His grip tightened on his son as light turbulence rocked the private jet; he had a baby carrier, but it was really only for 'just in case' purposes. There was nothing Francis preferred than holding his son in his own arms.

Before he was quite ready, the plane touched down, and he was ushered out by the small personal crew and into the waiting cab, Matthew clutched protectively against his chest.

All too soon they were pulling to the curb by Arthur's apartment, and Francis cautiously stepped out. He hadn't seen Arthur in person since before either of their sons' birth, and so hadn't seen this new abode, but Francis was no fool. He'd known Arthur since he was young because, in reality, they were cousins, and their parents certainly fell from the same tree. When they were small, Francis' mother often took trips to visit her sister in England, and brought Francis along, more to keep up the appearance of a happy family than anything else. During those early years, Arthur had been the only child he saw near his age, and although neither would ever admit it, the two gotten close.

So when Francis' aunt and uncle finally tired of this 'family' farce and abandoned their children when Arthur was only five, leaving Scott just fifteen at the time to take care of the rest of his brothers, the French child noble was the only one who kept contact.

It was a lot easier than one would have thought – while his parents and aunt and uncle were money-grubbing filth (he had long since stopped feeling guilt for such words about the people that gave him life), the manor's servants were all decent people and often snuck a six year old Francis off to meet the Kirkland kids. Because of this, the Frenchman knew the Kirklands' well – dirt poor thanks to their parents, but strong and proud. That last one he knew particularly well – not only did they refuse most of the money offered by their parents as a parting gift of sorts, choosing instead to make it on their own, penniless in some rundown apartment in London, rather than accepting the help of the two abandoning them, but as Francis himself got older and understood the situation fully, he too would constantly try to slip the brothers some of his money. But the answer was always the same: not a chance (in Arthur's case there was always an added: we don't want your money or your pity Frog, and if you don't put that insulting cash away I will shove it up your ass.").

So Francis, as he took his suitcase and baby-carrier in one arm and cradled Matthew with the other, knew that the matter of Arthur's rundown home and lack of capital had to be brought about with tact, seeing as it was situation of the pride that ran through all the Kirkland kids – if it was to be brought about at all.

"_Mon dieu, Sourcils_, how the hell can you live like this? I swear I was nearly _shivved_ on my way up."

But he was still Arthur's rival, and such an opportunity to childishly tease his friend was too good to pass up. Besides, he was a _Bonnefoy_. That should speak for itself.

Arthur stood in the doorway, looking worse for the wear and snapping waspishly his reply, but a good natured smirk had settled on his features nonetheless. "Frog. I half hoped you wouldn't come. And that's Shanking Sean, he's perfectly harmless – to us, anyway; he likes kids."

Given the flippant, devil-may-care way Arthur had added that last part, Francis firmly decided to ignore it as he entered the small apartment and focused instead on the first half of the statement. "Only half? Then I'm clearly not trying hard enough,"

The Briton ignored the comment but for the excellent view of his middle finger over his shoulder. It was, to say the least, a familiar sight to Francis, and provided a more-than-likely-misplaced sense of comfort.

The apartment was, on anyone else's standards, spotless. Small and crowded, but clean and cozy. Only one who truly knew Arthur could not how surprisingly cluttered it was, given that the teen was bordering on anal. The binky just beneath the couch, forgotten, the shoes beside the door instead of in the closet, the coat draped casually across the back of a chair instead of on a hanger, dishes and bottles beginning to pile in the sink. It was incredibly uncharacteristic and Francis wondered idly, as he watched his friend crack his shoulder and then his neck, whether the too stubborn, too proud young man was really okay.

Dusting imaginary dirt off the ratty couch – the furniture barely fit in the small space as it was, and Francis was loathe to think of how Arthur had gotten it up in the first place, as he lived on the sixth floor and apparently the elevator had been out of order for two years – and gestured for Francis to do the same. He sniffed in offense at the second rate furniture, but carefully sat anyway, adjusting his grip on the little boy in his arms, now awake.

"Alfred's napping in his crib now, but he's bound to wake soon," Arthur said, but there was a petulant note to his voice that suggested he'd rather be holding his son himself, but didn't elaborate on it further. "You can help me with diapers then. In the mean time, may I?"

He extended his arms, and it took Francis a moment of blank staring to realize he meant Matthew. Immediately he recoiled away from the arms, clutching the bundle tight to his chest.

A moment passed that they stared at each other in equal surprise; apparently Francis' reaction had stunned himself as much as it had Arthur. The Frenchman, here, was supposed to laugh it off easily and make a smooth comment to fill the gap, but nothing came. Humiliation was certain, Francis was sure, when Arthur scoffed.

"Honestly, Francis, quite being such a prat. I'm not going to _curse_ him; I save all my painful hexes for you."

The Englishman scowled his patented scowl, and Francis had never been so grateful to the Briton for sparing him the pain of explaining such a reaction. He handed his son off, painstakingly slow, just to make sure Arthur didn't drop him (and because he wanted to hang on to him as long as possible).

Once he was securely in Arthur's arms and out of Francis', the blonde gently shifted the blanket he was in to see him better. A smile lit his face, one Francis had never seen on his friend's usually scowling features, when wide violet eyes stared up at him in wonder, round, rosy cheeks with darling blonde curls just like his father's framing his face.

"Matthew, eh? Oh," He chuckled when Matthew, initial curiosity sated, immediately tucked himself away into the blanket without a sound. "Shy little thing, isn't he? He's lovely, Francis. Truly."

There was honest sincerity in his voice, and Francis puffed like a peacock, beaming at his little boy who had just come out enough to see his father and stretch tiny arms to him, still silent. Arthur blinked in surprise at the infant, still reaching for his father with tiny, mitten covered hands, but remaining quiet and still the whole time.

"Obedient, hm? He wants to go to you, but he won't make a peep. Not even squirming," After another moment of admiring Matthew's patience, Arthur Francis his son back. "Can he teach my Alfred to be like that?"

Francis, however, didn't answer. Enraptured in his son, he lifted the boy high above his head, reveling in the sound of Matthew's gentle laughter. Repeating the action just to hear it again, Arthur watched them. The two looked exactly alike: same hair, same pale skin even similar facial features, and that was noticeable even a few months old. The only difference was—

"He's got Jeanne's eyes,"

Francis went rigid.

Slowly he lowered Matthew until he was cradled in his arms, and Francis turned, ever so slightly, away from him. Staring at his back, Arthur almost regretted the comment; the other man's body was turned just so that the plane of his back was facing Arthur more than anything else, blond locks falling in a curtain over his face.

For a minute or so, they simply sat like that, Francis humming Matthew a French lullaby and Arthur merely listening, wondering if perhaps he was wrong to say that.

"He does. And they're beautiful, _non_?"

Francis hadn't turned, hadn't glanced over his shoulder or made any motion to signify he'd spoken at all, and someone who hadn't known him all his life probably wouldn't have caught it. As it was, Arthur made no sign that he'd heard at all. But he smiled.

They lapsed into another silence, this one far more comfortable than the last, and the spell was only broken by a sharp wail from the other room. Arthur was up and away so fast Francis swore he left a dust cloud.

He chuckled, lifting his son and bouncing him on his knee, brushing their noses as he said, "Cute ickle Artie is whipped, isn't he? Isn't he whipped?" He was rewarded with a sweet little giggle for his troubles from Matthew, and a growled obscenity from Arthur who had just reentered the room.

"I am most certainly _not_ whipped, wanker," He huffed, reclining back on the couch with a bundle in his arms that hadn't been there earlier. Said bundle made an expectant sound, and Arthur was quick to get up and retrieve the bottle of solution from the bottle warmer on the window sill. He came back, fussing over his tiny charge, to see Francis smirking, an elegant brow quirked.

Arthur flushed, bristling like a cat. "Sh-shut up, Frog," He huffed and scowled, but his expression was softened, words holding less bite than normal. Francis shook his head in amusement, and adjusted his hold on Matthew to stand behind Arthur and peek over his shoulder at the little miracle that could have lowered his defenses so. Immediately the Englishman stepped away from him, sniffing, and clutching the child to his chest tighter. From beneath the blankets his son laughed in delight, a tiny hand poking out to swat his father's cheek affectionately, which Arthur accepted in a way that more than shocking. Intrigued by this even further, Francis paid the defensive reaction the other had performed no heed, nodding to the infant. "So this is Alfred, then?"

"No, this is actually Matthew's twin brother Bartholomew, separated at birth, whom I was told not to tell you about until just the right moment. _Yes_, it's Alfred you dolt." Arthur rolled his eyes and snorted, still cradling his son protectively. Francis, in return, put on his best pout and batted his lashes. The other looked mildly disturbed.

"Does dear cousin Francis not even get a look, mother hen?"

"Wh- I am not overprotective _poultry_, you daft idiot! I just—"

"Oh really? Then give him here; I let you see _mon Mathieu_, so it's only fair, _oui_?" Francis held out his free arm expectantly, and as the boy in Arthur's grasp caught a glimpse of someone new he immediately began squealing with excitement, chubby arms outstretched. Arthur, outnumbered, looked longingly from the happy child in his arms before glaring at Francis, reluctantly switching sons again. Both were careful and watchful of the other during the transaction, waiting a moment to see that each of their children were not going to be dropped, before turning to the boys in their arms.

The first thing out of Francis' mouth was, "Wow. A very… _cheerful_ child, Arthur," He smiled at Alfred's gleeful laughter when he was lifted high and brought back down again. It was admittedly enchanting, the sound, and Francis found himself repeating the action several times just to hear more of it.

_"C'est mignon_," He laughed, "He is quite adorable, Arthur, even for your offspring. And look, he doesn't even have your eyebrows; the kindest thing God has ever done."

"Gee, thanks. And he may seem cute now, but the lad has terrible mood swings when he sees it fit. Which tend to be all hours of the night, particularly the few in which I'm trying to get some sleep." Arthur answered dryly, but emerald eyes were warm upon his son in Francis' arms. It really was useless to try and keep up his show of indifference and irritation, given how besotted he clearly was with little Alfred, but he continued anyway. "You wait sixteen years, then come back and see how cute that personality of his is."

Immediately both blonds stiffened; it was an odd thought, and Arthur wished he hadn't even said it. Alfred being a reckless, angsty teenager, when he and Francis were nothing short of that themselves. How old would that make them? They'd be in their thirties, and as uncomfortable a thought of being so much older was, it was even more unsettling to reflect on how other fathers would be nearly twice that age. These thoughts, ultimately, led to the ones that kept Arthur up at night – sixteen more years. It seemed like a lifetime away; how could he possibly take care of a child for that long? He was bound to mess up – bound to fail his precious, dear Alfred, the boy was bound to hate him—

Arthur, drowning in such destructive, consuming thoughts as these, was immensely grateful to be woken from his musings by Francis' shriek from the couch.

"_Merde_! This is a good shirt, ah, don't just stand there you damned Englishman, take him back! The boy is _pissing_ on me, _fuck-!_"

Arthur howled with laughter on the other side of the room as Francis continued to swear, slipping swiftly into French because there was no way in hell that _English_ cursing was enough by this point. The Frenchman held Alfred an arm's length away, scowling bitterly at the boy, who was laughing as hard as his father; albeit far more cheerful and pleasant to listen to, as well as less vindictive. Francis glared at Arthur, only to find the man leaning on the wall and cradling Matthew to his chest, still gasping for breath at Francis' expense. Even worse, at sensing all the obvious merriment (from all but Francis), Matthew too was beginning to giggle.

Francis huffed haughtily, flipping his nose up. Still keeping Alfred held out and away – who was now beginning to reach for him again, seeing no reason not to be held closer and smiling at full force with all the irresistible cuteness of a cherub – really, it was commendable that Francis didn't forgive him instantly under the innocent blue-eyed gaze – the elder teen marched to the other room where a crib could be seen from the doorway. "Well, do you want my help or not, _Sourcils_? It seems your case is worse than I thought, with your brat's small bladder."

"Do _not_ call Alfred a brat, bastard," Arthur snapped lowly, but given that a faint trace of amusement still lingered on his face from the previous event, Francis doubted he would act on the threat lacing his tone. He waved at him dismissively once he had Alfred settled on one end of the changing table.

"Bring Matthew here, and let_le maître_show you how it's done." Torn between chuckling and glaring, Arthur obeyed, bringing the violet eyed child next to his blue eyed son. He didn't get to pause to think on that further, however, because Francis was clipping out more orders as he peeled the small clothing off the infants – a maple red onesie for Matthew, (the same shade as his mittens, which Francis left on) and a sky blue matching shirt and shorts for Alfred.

"The diapers, get me those. Bring me the whole pack – all the ones you have."

Arthur frowned. "All of them? Why?"

"You asked for my help, did you not? So don't question me. Off you trot, _Rosbif_. Get my suitcase, too."

The Englishman grumbled beneath his breath as he stomped off, but stomped off he did all the same, and with minimal complaint (other than the initial grumbling, but that didn't really count). Francis flashed a small smile, and gently pinched Alfred's toes.

"You're a miracle worker, you are. Just like my Mathieu – two months, and you've already greatly changed grouchy _Sourcils_."

Alfred's answer was a brilliant, gummy smile, and a series of coos that practically had Francis melting – and then, hearing Alfred, Matthew smiled shyly and made small baby noises as well, and both children turned to look at each other and actually _smiled wider_ for God's sake and oh my God Francis was _positive_ he was melting now—

At which point Arthur came back, scowling as ever (though Francis could assume he was in a fine enough mood; Arthur was _always_ scowling, and this seemed like his default scowl instead of his legitimately angry one) with Francis' suitcase rolling behind him in one hand and a big plastic set of diapers in the other. He set them both at the other's feet, crossing his arms impatiently afterward. "Now what?"

Francis didn't answer at first, a small smile adorning his lips as he finished folding the baby clothes and watching the infants fondly. Instead of a proper answer, he said, "Neither of us thought we'd be undressing anyone for _this_ reason a year ago, hm, Arthur? Show me those diapers of yours; the brand, if you please."

The Englishman chuckled as he hoisted up the diapers to show him. He ran his free hand through his unruly blond locks. "I _never_ thought I'd be doing anything like this – not now or ever. Never wanted a kid." With the hand that had been in his hair, he cupped Alfred's cheek – his whole face, really, he was just so _small_ – before letting the beaming boy wrap both hands around just one of his fingers. He smiled warmly, adoringly and _lovingly_, and needed to say nothing else.

Francis allowed his smile to grow a little wider before he clapped his hands and set to work. "Now then! You have wipes to clean them, _oui_? Ah," He reached for the furthest corner of the changing table, where indeed the wipes were, and pulled two out, handing one to Arthur. "Use this to clean your hands – soap and water is probably best, of course, but these work as well. Oh, and throw out those insulting diapers. All of them; off to the trash can you go."

"I already _washed_ my hands, I'm not incompetent – wait, _what_? I'm not throwing them out! They're perfectly good diapers, and the most cost effective, and I spent good money on them!"

With an over exaggerative sigh, Francis snatched the diapers from him and tossed them out himself, flapping dismissively in Arthur's direction as he spluttered incoherently and turned three interesting shades of red. "Then I shall reimburse you with something even better, hm?" Humming pleasantly to himself as he did so, he returned to his suitcase and pulled out an equally sized plastic package of _Pampers_. He shoved them to the other, who had by now been shocked into silence. "You – You kept those in your _suitcase_?"

Francis shrugged, waving it off again. "I had to figure for your uselessness. It wasn't hard."

Deciding to ignore the comment, an extreme strain on his patience though it was, he allowed the other to slowly walk him through the mechanics of the task at hand. Surprisingly, it was all going fairly well – the old diapers had been disposed of, the boys were clean, and now the new ones were being prepared – until Alfred got tired of being cooperative and lashed out a tiny leg to kick Arthur's wrist. The incident could be overlooked, in Francis' opinion, although Arthur's mood seemed to be souring in a way that told him he knew what was coming. Apparently he did, because Alfred laughed at the scowl set on his father's face, chubby legs continuing to thrash until they kicked off the cloth Francis had instructed be put over his vital regions to prevent –

"Arthur, why are you ducking – _sacre bleu!_"

All hell broke loose.

A spray of foul smelling liquid was released upon the room, Francis cursing madly, Arthur scolding his son to no avail, Alfred laughing at the top of his two-month-old lungs. Beside him Matthew was getting riled up as well, giggling as loudly as he ever had and cheerfully copying Alfred's antics.

"Arthur, control that _menace_ of yours!"

"Pay attention, why don't you? That's _your_ kid!"

Sure enough, Alfred's bladder finally seemed to empty, only for Matthew to start. By the time the shower was over, both boys were nigh uncontrollable they were laughing and squirming so hard. Fifteen minutes later, the children were finally calming down after being rocked around the small flat in towels. The moment they were manageable, they were re-diapered and clothed, both fathers only realizing after a small victory jump that Arthur had successfully diapered his happy-go-lucky, energetic son.

Francis had to admit that he'd thought Arthur was overreacting over the phone before, and that this incident proved said assumption wrong. Another victory jump later (the last one; sixteen or not, Arthur wouldn't be caught dead doing that again), and at last the boys were sleepy enough to be laid down to sleep. As Francis had not brought a portable crib (Arthur had no idea whether or not they made those, but if they did, Francis would most certainly have it), the infants shared Alfred's. Arthur had read that twins did that sometimes, and he had to admit, the boys got along splendidly (or as well as infants could get).

And finally the Europeans were flopping down on the overstuffed, ratty couch, exhausted and content to simply relax after that rather stressful diaper lesson. Francis was the one who broke the silence after a minute or two as Arthur rubbed at his jade eyes tiredly.

"I need a shower, _Rosbif_. Right now."

"Well, it'll have to wait. I don't have water right now." At Francis' surprised look, he rolled his eyes and elaborated drolly. "I still have _water_, but _hot_ water is a different story. I get it for a half an hour each day for free, courtesy of the landlord. It's almost time anyhow, so you can take your shower then."

Francis made a face - he had hardly ever been without, so the thought of such restrictions on such simple things as hot water made his skin crawl slightly - but said nothing. The truth was that this whole visit, even with the little fiasco, was so far an extreme success. Francis' mind was not dwelling on things it had been for the past two months, and he found he was even _enjoying_ himself. However, this conversation was a damper on that; he didn't want to speak apout how hard his friend's life had become, how he was just hanging on. He tried for a subject change.

"Well, with some practice, you should be an expert diaper changer in no time and hopefully never have to experience that again. Never again with me there, of course – if it were just you, it would be admittedly hilarious to watch." He stretched one arm over his head, smirking. "Goodness, how _ever_ did you manage without me?"

The question was teasing, rhetorical; he hadn't expected an answer. Perhaps that was why he was so surprised when Arthur spoke, but somewhere further inside him he knew it was the words that had the stunning effect, not the motion of speaking itself.

"Emily always did it. While I was working, even when I came home. I did other things; when Alfred cried at night, I always got him – walked him around until he fell back to sleep, things like that – there were never _turns_, like in those bloody sitcoms, it was always me. But it was always Emily that did the diapers."

He said nothing else on the matter, still seemingly completely focused on the child in his arms, and Francis didn't push it. Arthur hardly ever pried when it came to Jeanne; he might try to crack his isolated shell, but never to make him talk about her or how things were now, how they could have been, all the things Francis just couldn't talk about yet. He could at least offer Arthur the same courtesy.

Personally, he had thought Emily was charming – bright, fun, full of life and promise. She didn't even have an annoying American accent; just the kind of girl Francis himself would have gone after before he met Jeanne, but he had always had the feeling she wasn't _the one_ for his childhood English friend. Arthur was still a teen, after all; a true soul-mate, like Jeanne, wasn't someone you came by every day with every girl you dated. When the pregnancy had happened, and Arthur, every the responsible gentleman, had planted himself firmly on American soil and away from his beloved England and decided to raise his son, Francis hadn't been surprised; stubborn and sarcastic as Arthur was, and as much as he'd deny it, he was responsible, good and just. The Frenchman had been worried about Emily, about whether or not she could handle parenthood. But she had stayed for a month, and then more; he thought he'd been wrong about her. Perhaps his initial judgment had been incorrect. And then he'd come here, and now—

"Four days. She left four days ago."

"…I wasn't going to ask."

"But you wanted to."

That was true enough that he didn't answer to it, and they lapsed into silence for the next ten minutes as Arthur made tea for himself and coffee for Francis (griping all the while about how tea was the far superior drink). Francis wondered how Arthur had held together in the four days she was gone, only calling him for help now. A neighbor, perhaps? It would have to be a very friendly neighbor, one that took initiative, because lord knew (well… _Francis_ knew) that he would never ask for help from a stranger himself. But what about work? What about _now_? Even if Arthur could now fasten a mean diaper, that didn't suddenly alleviate the problems that had arisen in Emily's absence. Francis didn't know how many jobs Arthur balanced to pay the bills, or how hard it must have been to get just one afternoon off today, but he was sure it wasn't easy given that it was the only way he got by. How was he possibly going to take care of Alfred when he had all those things on his plate?

But something in Arthur's tone suggested that the discussion was over, and Francis was happy to let it be. Perhaps he could make a suggestion later; a servant from his manor back in France, perhaps. They all loved Francis and in turn loved Arthur, the cute little Briton from days long past. He was sure any of them would be up to helping him out around here.

Arthur, done with their beverages (because, thank God, his cooking skills didn't pass into how he made drinks) came back, leaning down enough to hand off Francis' drink but clearly without intent to sit down. Francis quirked a brow, which Arthur answered with a shrug before straightening and making his way over to the crib, disappearing from sight. After a moment, Francis followed.

He found Arthur leaning against the wall, mug of tea in hand, simply gazing down at the infants, eyes warmer than he had ever seen them. "It's the most darling thing I've ever seen," He said quietly, without looking up. Francis, curious by now, came over to see what could have provoked such a reaction, and—

Oh.

Well, now Arthur's reaction made sense.

Curled in the crib were both their sons, dozing peacefully, hand in hand and pressed comfortably together in a way that Francis had only ever seen twins behave. Like two halves of a whole.

"How absolutely _precious_," He cooed, flipping out his cell phone to take a picture. Arthur hummed his agreement, jade eyes hardly that of weary, unlucky teen, but rather… rather a true, loving father. The look was mirrored in Francis' own navy optics. They stood that way for a while, sipping their drinks and watching them, in a sort of lulling peace that neither had felt so completely in the whole visit until that moment.

At last, Francis stood, mug empty. With a final loving look inside the crib, he turned and walked back to the main room, calling over his shoulder:

"_Sourcils_, there is no way I will be sleeping on your disease infested, urine stained couch for the remainder of my stay. Be a good host and let me have the bed."

"Not on your life, Frog, it's _my_ bloody home – wait, you're staying _here?_"

**…**

**Can any of you guess who Emily is? I'll give you a hint - she's not an OC, and I've used her fandom name. XD Her part in Arthur's life will become clearer as it goes on. Also, I deeply apologize for any inaccuracy - I've actually been doing research for this story, which is pretty impressive when it comes to me, so I think everything little Al and Matt do here makes sense for two-month-olds - reaching, smling, laughing. I may be completely wrong though, and if so, I'm really, really sorry!**

**As much as I liked this chapter, I must say I'm disappointed; I was really hoping to get more than one perspective in there, to see what diaper changing for some of the others was like, but this one ended up being so long, that well... yeah, I'm sorry for that. No worries, I'll make sure to get in more than one family next time!**

**Speaking of the next chapter, because I still feel really bad that I'm late, you guys can choose the next milestone. You've got to REVIEW for that though, so please do! Thanks so much for being so patient and for all the wonderful reviews so far, I hope you enjoyed this chapter!**

**There was a silence**


	3. The Grand Day Out

**CHAPTER THREE, WOO! Took me way longer than it should have, but it's out. I know I haven't gotten to reply to most of your amazing, wonderful reviews, but know that I WILL REPLY and that I appreciate all of them. I would have done that first, but I really wanted to get this out, so here it is.**

**YES, to everyone who guessed, Emily is nyotalia!America. I debated for a while whether it should be Nyotalia!England, but decided this made more sense with the storyline and, even though I know nyotalia!England and original!England are two completely seperate characters, it still wierded me out to think they birthed America. I dunno, I just liked it better the other way. ALSO, apologies on the name choice; I had no idea the Japanese fandom name and American fandom name were seperate, as I had it pointed out to me. OH WELL, WE'RE STICKING WITH IT.**

**As for the milestone this chapter: I had a few asking for walking/talking, but worry not, those will probably be next chapter and after that. THIS one, however, goes out to vinnie2757, because she's awesome and deserves it and there's NO WAY this chapter lives up to what she totally deserves, and ArAnCaR No. 6, because that was a nice request and worked really well with the rest of the chapter, so I tried to put the whole 'curious about the whole world' thing. I really hope it's up to par; I'm pretty sure I like this chapter, so I'm nervous. So, milestone is: the first official Grand Day Out, in which baby truly sees the new world like WHOA.**

**Disclaimer: Not mine. Still. I don't even know if this is necessary, but hell, I'm saying it anyway. AND NOW WITHOUT FURTHER ADO, BECAUSE THIS AN GOT WAY TOO LONG, HERE IS CHAPTER THREE.**

…

It was four twenty eight in the morning, Lovino was wailing at the top of his lungs, and he hadn't gotten a decent night's sleep in the six months since the Italian was born.

Antonio had never been happier.

Warm, sun kissed hands reached into the crib his treasure lay in, and gently scooped him up. "Lovi, _¿__que pasa, hm?_"

He yawned and smiled sleepily at the tiny brunette, matching emerald eyes teary and wide as they stared back. The child had stopped his banshee cry the moment Antonio was within view, arms reaching expectantly as he waited to be picked up. It was inevitable, after all, that the Spaniard would act accordingly – would smile and carry his charge around the Vargas manor, lift him high or bounce him on his knee, anything to get little Lovino to smile. As Roderich often liked to point out, two parts annoyed and one part amused, Lovino had Antonio wrapped around his finger.

Not that the Spaniard minded. His response was always a cheerful laugh and some cheeky comment or other about how children were meant to be spoiled, to which Roderich replied, irritated, how if that were the case than Antonio was doing a damn good job. And it was true; anything to get Lovino's bright eyes to light up, anything to hear his rare, tinkling laughter, Antonio would do in a heartbeat.

Currently, that seemed to be sating his curiosity. The past month or so had been filled with the baby's desire to seek out new things, reaching and grabbing for anything unusual and different. Roderich, with Feliciano experiencing a same new found inquisitiveness, often seemed to find the habit of picking up random objects in wonder a nuisance; constantly taking things out of the Italian's grasp and griping in a matter that still somehow seemed dignified about the children's insatiable curiosity. Feliciano never seemed deterred by his guardian's stern looks or how he snatched items he deemed unfit for children out of his small hands.

Cradling him gently, Antonio carried him to different empty rooms in the manor, making sure to keep quiet so as not to wake the rest of the staff which lived on the grounds (especially Roderich; he had said he'd make Antonio sleep outside if he was woken up again, and the Spaniard had learned not to doubt such threats) and smiling when Lovino found something new to play with or explore.

The place the child seemed to find the most interest in, without fail, was the master bedroom – the one that belonged to Romulus'.

He supposed it made sense that Lovino would favor this room, if not for the very same reasons Antonio was saddened by it. It would be a lie to say that his heart didn't ache each time he entered the place; it was still exactly as his employer had left it that morning, waiting faithfully for him to return. As though he would any moment; as though he had just stepped out to check on Antonio's garden, or listen to the melodious stream he adored from Roderich's piano. Sitting gingerly on the edge of the king sized bed, the gardener let his eyes shut and inhaled deeply the scent the room gave off; he wasn't nearly poetic enough to describe the unique smell or presence, but it was distinctly Romulus. A faint smile tweaked his lips; at the very least, he could detect a faint hint of pasta.

A small hand fell on his cheek, and Antonio blinked in surprise. He glanced down to be met by what was irrefutably a pout on Lovino's cherub features, and couldn't stop the swell of laughter that burst forth. Smiling warmly, he held his charge close and rubbed noses briefly.

"_Lo siento, mi querido,_" He murmured, expression softening when the six-month-old huffed and a second hand came to join the first, lightly slapping his other cheek. He chuckled sadly, and pressing his lips gently to Lovino's forehead, took a moment longer to accept and embrace the overflow of sudden, desolate emotions… before pushing the dark thoughts to the back of his mind and smiling brightly. He sunk to the floor, folding his legs up and setting the Italian down.

Recently Lovino had learned to crawl – exactly one day after Feliciano, as it was – and since, he was twitching to get going on his own. Antonio laughed as he watched the boy shuffle across the floor of the large room, eyes widening as they took in the wonders of his surroundings. They were lucky Romulus had been such a laidback man; many articles were discarded about the floor, well within reach of a curious child.

The tiny brunette crawled toward the square patch of moonlight gleaming in through the window (the last of it, as the sun would be rising soon) before slumping there and stretching small hands out to make shadows. Antonio smiled fondly as a delighted squeal left the boy, who continued to make entertaining shapes on the floor for a few more moments before wide green eyes settled upon a new marvel.

The boy was off, now going for the bright colors of a sombrero – Antonio grinned brightly – that lay on its top before the dresser. Romulus, it was well known, was a well versed traveler, and had relics and souvenirs from across the globe, including Antonio's beautiful Spain.

Before his eyes, Lovino reached the wide brimmed hat and, with only a moment's hesitation as he figured out its basic mechanics, lifted it up and dropped it over his head.

Antonio positively _melted_.

It was his understanding that an intense photoshoot of this moment was in order via the camera he'd received as a Christmas present the year prior.

…

Roderich awoke in a way that was, as unfortunate as it happened to be, fairly normal.

"Roderich! Rod, _mi amigo_, wake up, you've got to see this!"

Roderich internally contemplated the repercussions of a homicide this fine morning. They couldn't be that bad; outside of the manor, not many of those particular Italians liked the Spaniard. Surely he could get away with it.

"I know you said not to wake you up or you'd have me sleep outside, but this is urgent!"

What, a few years time in prison? It was beginning to seem more and more worth it.

"But really, Roderich, rise and shine! I really want to get back but I can't until you're coming too so please wake up and come on and – agh!"

Antonio, oblivious to his friend's (a loose term, in Roderich's opinion) more than slightly homicidal musings, didn't see the hand darting for his face until it was pinching his nose tightly, bringing him to a squeaking halt.

One violet eye, ever more menacing without the usual glass of his spectacles between them, glared from beneath the shadows of the blankets, bloodshot and scathing.

"_Antonio_," The musician ground out between gritted teeth, in a tone his friend had lovingly dubbed The Dreaded Morning Voice, "I will say this only once. It is barely past five in the morning, I needn't be up for another two hours at least, and I can assure you that should you pester me further I will castrate you personally because I am not in the mood for your ridiculous and frankly _stupid_ antics."

A pause.

"Wait, are you _bleeding_? Are you having a _nosebleed_?"

"Hm? _Si_. I told you it's urgent, no?"

Roderich's eye twitched. Twice. A long moment where he seemed to be gathering the will not to throttle the gardener in front of him, before at last sighing heavily and releasing his nose, wiping his hand with a grimace of disgust on Antonio's shirt. "Fine. But this better be as incredible as you seem to believe it is."

Nose still gushing, the Spaniard cheered and steered a less than enthusiastic Roderich down the hall to the master bedroom. The Austrian was quick to cover his grimace once he saw the place he was being lead to; surely, if Antonio was bringing him here of all places, there was a good reason.

Then again.

This was _Antonio_.

He had come to expect the unexpected when it came to him.

This philosophy was proven correct when he entered the spacious bedroom to find, plopped in the center of the floor, Lovino and a sombrero that nearly swallowed him.

The child didn't even look up when the others entered, so enthralled with the article that covered half his face and his entire shoulder down to his elbow, and it slipped further still. As the two watched, Roderich in surprise and Antonio in delight, the hat continued to slide until, with a plop, it sunk completely over his head and shoulders. Bewildered by this sudden turn of events, the Italian squeaked, his tiny torso swiveling about in a search for light in the sudden darkness.

At the front of the room, Antonio cooed, frantically snapping more pictures, and he practically squealed with adoration when the baby finally managed to lift the wide rim of the hat just enough to see his flushed face beneath, lower lip quivering in an image that was, Roderich had to admit, incredibly cute.

Until he started wailing.

Antonio was scooping him up in an instant, cuddling the boy lovingly and laughing when his received response was a cranky pull of his ponytail. Still making nonsense noises as Lovino hiccupped and tugged his hair, he cheerfully returned to Roderich's side, all smiles.

"Wasn't that just absolutely adorable? Didn't I tell you it was a must-see?"

For a long moment, Roderich just stared. Antonio had cleaned his nose, but the Austrian wouldn't be surprised if it started trickling again any moment.

"Am I to understand that the cuteness of this child causes internal bleeding?"

"Yes!"

"…And you're excited about this?"

_"Yes!"_

A deadpan stare.

"Of course you are."

Antonio merely laughed it off, bouncing Lovino on his hip until he was giggling again. "He's so curious these days; everything new amazes him," The words were directed at the teen in front of him, even as his gaze remained fixed on his small charge. Roderich couldn't suppress the small smile of amusement as he watched the baby huff and continue tugging and pushing at Antonio simultaneously, wondering to himself if it was a strange show of affection, and as he observed the warm feeling in his chest slowly morphed to—

"Well, certainly," He agreed at last, if only to quell that feeling of guilt within him, "Feliciano is the same way. This _world_ is new to them, and they're only just starting to realize it." He frowned. "But you shouldn't leave him alone in there. We both know how eccentric the master was – he has a good collection of weaponry in that room."

Antonio met his gaze and hummed. "Yes, but it's a comfort to him. He may not understand fully, but he gets what's going on enough to miss him." A brief flicker of sadness that he pushed away, "Besides, all of that's too high for him to reach."

"Even so. There are a good number of things in there too dangerous for an infant. At least keep a watchful eye on him while he's there instead of running off to get me and leaving him alone."

Antonio digested these words, the possibility of Lovino getting hurt, and hung his head in shame. "…Yeah. Yeah, you're right." He buried his nose in dark auburn hair, sighing quietly. "The problem is, he's bored with everything else. I've brought him all over the manor; he's seen it all. He needs something _new_, Roderich, you know?"

"What about town? You've taken him there before."

"Yes, but… they don't like us very much there. I understand about myself; it's always been that way. But Lovi? He hasn't done anything. And they still treat him the way the treat me. There's always the garden; Lovi loves the tomatoes, but…" He sighed again, and Roderich could only wonder as to how there wasn't even the least resentment for himself in that voice, only a quiet anger and sadness for the child in his arms. And he felt a rare swell of pain for his friend.

"Then perhaps further," He said slowly. "Where Romulus would take us. Further to that commoner's town; they're kinder there."

There was a moment of uncertainty in those emerald eyes at the suggestion, of pain; neither he nor Roderich had dared to venture there since Romulus' death for the memories it harbored, the pain it held. But Roderich kept his gaze level, and he saw with satisfaction as Antonio's eyes lit up at last, a smile spreading across his tanned face. "Yeah," He agreed softly, beaming down at Lovino now. "That's a really good idea."

With a curt nod, Roderich turned on his heel, intent on going back to bed without a swelling feeling of guilt in his chest. He needn't think on that, not right now; he was tired, and besides, it was for the best.

It was for the best. _It was for the best._

"We'll go later today," Antonio was saying behind him, shuffling after his back at a leisurely pace as he spoke to both his friend and the small Italian in his arms. "Won't that be fun, Lovi? You and Feli are coming too, aren't you Rod?"

Roderich stiffened at this question, in both exasperation and what he refused to recognize as shame, but he repressed the latter in favor of focusing on the former. "I am exhausted, Antonio. I intend to practice my compositions today."

"Ah, but the town would be so much fun, Roderich!" Antonio pressed, sidling up beside him. "Such a nice change,"

And then, because he was by far more clever than Roderich gave him credit for sometimes and damn if it didn't come back to bite the musician time and again for forgetting, "Don't you think Feliciano would like it? The sunshine, the people? Different from spending all day inside; I think he'd enjoy it very much."

And they both knew he got Roderich with that one.

"Antonio. Have I ever told you that you are one of my least favorite people on this earth?"

The Spaniard laughed. "More than once, _si_."

…

The twins were in awe.

Wide eyed and squealing in excitement, both were reaching and gaping at the fantastic colors and sounds, at the many faces that crowded in to coo and compliment the angelic Italian children. Even Lovino was too amazed to pout and squirm.

"They're just adorable,"

"If they aren't the cutest things!"

"How absolutely _precious_."

Antonio wasn't fairing much better. He was delighted by the boys' reactions, was sheepish and smiling at the waves of kind words directed at the infants despite the fact that they still treated the gardener coldly. That growing pit of guilt was sinking ever deeper in Roderich's chest as he watched Antonio carry Lovino from stall to stall in the market, picking up brightly colored fruits for him to examine one after another. As the gardener had said earlier, the infant was still most enthralled by the tomatoes, bright red and juicy, and more often than not tried to stuff them in his mouth.

They passed a small, ragtag group of live musicians and stopped for a moment to listen. Roderich nodded appreciatively despite the scathing criticism he gave, and Antonio laughed at the way green and amber eyes widened respectively. He spun Lovino around to the music, humming with the lively tune they played to accommodate the dancers. Lovino squealed happily, and Antonio only stopped when he was nearly pitching sideways with dizziness.

Once he'd gotten his bearings, the group made their way into a small clothing shop, where Antonio found matching hand-made outfits for the twins – dresses, green for Feliciano and a warm pink for Lovino with smocks that were most definitely sewn for girls, but were admittedly (and disturbingly) endearing on them all the same. Antonio nearly had another nosebleed on the new clothes.

In another shop, Roderich came upon a charming music box that played lullabies that Feliciano seemed to enjoy. At least another forty minutes was spent in a knick knack store, Antonio simply showing his charge different items he'd never seen before, grinning wide at the way his bright eyes went brighter with each wonder he held in chubby hands. He was amazed by the ornate carvings on the box, and then startled to angry tears when the figure popped out of it once Antonio cranked the handle. The chess piece fascinated him, as big as his entire face, until he tried to put it in his mouth and had it taken away. The plush animals, while he had many at home, were of a different breed here and had his rapt attention, squeezing and pulling until Roderich had to stop Antonio from taking pictures so he could rescue said dolls for fear their stuffing would come out.

Everywhere they went, patrons fluttered about, complimenting the handsome children and praising their good behavior (or, more accurately, Feliciano's good behavior; Lovino, feeling equal parts delighted for the attention and crowded for it, bit a woman's finger). At last they approached the counter, with their original purchases held by the Austrian in his free hand (as he hadn't found anything of significance in this shop) and Antonio holding a few more; a pillow in the shape of a tomato, a set of rubber turtle bath toys. The Spaniard insisted they head off to find a good place for lunch while he paid, and Roderich went with little resistance, Feliciano waving happily over his shoulder.

At the register, Lovino still had all his attention; the boy was gazing in wonder at the antique cash register with which the man behind it was working. Before either he or Antonio could stop him, a small hand was reaching out and punching the keys with fervor, delighting in the loud trills the action rewarded him with. Antonio couldn't help but laugh before gaining his control and hitching Lovino higher, out of the machine's reach. He bowed his head slightly, giving the man an apologetic smile.

"Ah, I'm very sorry for that. He's very curious, you see,"

He waited in silent acceptance, smile still bright, for the man's face to morph at the sound of his voice, at his accent, clearly not Italian. Clearly _Spanish_. He knew not all of Italy was as it was here; the time for anti Spanish sentiment was long gone, and he had just hit a small bump by finding this town to be so full of it. None of them kept their smiles once they heard his voice.

This man was in his late thirties, early forties. He probably had children of his own. Perhaps that was the reason why, instead of scowling, instead of grunting and shooing him from the store as rudely as he could manage, he smiled and waved it off, reaching forward to ruffle Lovino's hair.

"It's no problem, boy."

And he was _smiling_, and for a moment Antonio was somewhere else, listening to another voice, seeing another's smile.

_It's no problem boy. Come, let's get you cleaned up._

The man was still speaking. "You've got a lovely son there, you do. He's got your eyes,"

And Antonio couldn't speak, because Romulus was grinning behind his eyelids, and this man had just called Lovino his _son_, and he'd never heard that before, never had the heart to even say it himself and it just sounded so _beautiful_ to hear it be said by another, by anyone and suddenly the man's eyes were widening and he was waving his arms about frantically—

"Ah, sir, are you all right? You- you're crying, ah…!"

Crying?

_Crying?_

Antonio blinked, and blinked again, finding the wetness in his eyes beginning to burn. He started in surprise and scrubbed roughly at his eyes, the laugh that left him shaky. "Oh, I'm sorry; I don't know what came over me,"

He laughed again, stronger, and the man was frowning in genuine concern. He reached across the counter and placed a calloused palm on his shoulder. "Are you sure you're okay? Not many people burst into tears when they're buying my trinkets,"

Antonio laughed a third time, and he gripped the hand on his shoulder gently, removed it with a smile, squeezing the palm and shaking it warmly, eyes sincere despite the tears still clinging to his lashes and the words that circled joyously in his head.

_Son._

"Yes. Yes, I'm alright."

_Son. My son. My son._

"Thank you. Thank you, really."

The man seemed satisfied with this, and nodded gruffly, smile returning. Bagging Antonio's purchases and giving Lovino's cheek an affectionate and gentle pinch (to which the boy huffed and pushed him away), he watched them leave with a friendly wave, and Antonio left to rejoin Roderich with his spirits a little higher, the world a little brighter.

He found Roderich at a small restaurant in one of the tables outside, staring down his nose at the menu with a frown of disapproval. Beside him Feliciano sat in a high chair, a second one for Lovino waiting empty across from them; Antonio wouldn't have been surprised in the least if he had insisted on it specially, probably threatening to ruin the restaurant's reputation if his demands weren't met. It was the kind of thing Roderich would do; the teen didn't take no for an answer very well, and rather than causing a scene he would discreetly make such underhanded threats and the like while somehow still managing his aristocratic air. When Antonio had taken his seat and asked, Roderich had simply shrugged, and said:

"Restaurants that don't have at least some family element lose that many customers, especially given that much of that familial community are close. And so it stands to reason that, hypothetically, word of such shortcomings would spread quickly, and that much business would suddenly disappear. I just helped them to see that."

Antonio laughed out loud, and was still chuckling when they made their orders and took out Lovino and Feliciano's bottle solutions from the bag the musician had thought to bring. While eating, Antonio relayed his story from the shop, smiling brighter than the sun overhead whenever he mentioned Lovino being his son.

"I mean, I know it's not biological, and he might not even see me that way since we're both so young, but… It was so _nice_, you know? And I feel like a father, too. I wouldn't want to have any other son than Lovino, anyhow," He ran tanned fingers through feather-soft auburn locks as he said so, and missed the flash of pain through his friend's eyes.

His attention seemed caught on Lovino's hair at the moment, and he hummed distractedly, taking his other hand to his own long dark tresses. "I think I should cut it," He said at last, giving the ponytail a thoughtful tug before looking to the Austrian for confirmation. "What do you think?"

Roderich blinked at him in surprise before the expression turned to one of incredulity. "Why? Not that I oppose the idea, I find your hairstyle most undignified, but still; whatever for?"

"It's more a matter of… responsibility," He laughed sheepishly at the other's deadpan look, and elaborated carefully. "Well, I'm his father now, right? I should look the part, at least, not some ruffian little kid anymore – even if we both know that's what I am at heart," He gave a carefree laugh, eyes sparkling, and—

"What are your plans for the future, Antonio?"

The gardener looked at him, startled by the sudden turn of conversation and the grave expression on Roderich's face, but not enough to justify suspicion for it. He shrugged, peeling a tomato slice from his pizza and chewing, pensive. "I hadn't really thought about it, I guess," He caught Roderich's disapproving frown, and continued, hoping to erase it. "But in Romulus' will, he gave the manor to us servants, right? We could stay there as long as we like. So I suppose I had just planned to stay here; raise Lovino where his grandfather had always lived. I'm sure someone here would be willing to give me a job," He smiled amicably, confidence in his neighbors restored by the shop owner.

Across from him, Roderich nodded slowly. Antonio decided he was imagining it when he thought the look that flashed in his eyes was dread. Slowly he put his fork down, folded his fingers together neatly on the table. "Antonio… I'm moving to America next year."

Well, that was unexpected. For a solid minute, Antonio was rendered speechless, emerald eyes wide and staring as his brain attempted to catch up with those words, with what Roderich was still saying.

"I have a friend there I haven't seen in a long time. I'm leaving once I turn eighteen, and I'll be staying in New York City with her. Feliciano is coming with me."

Another minute of staring, of trying to compute. Roderich watched him warily, waiting for a response, before finally, a warm smile lit the gardener's face, and he reached out and clapped the musician's shoulder. "That's wonderful, my friend. A year, then? That should give me enough time to get money for a plane ticket. I'll go too; I've got a friend there as well, owes me a favor, I'm sure she'd be willing to help me. Besides, I've always wanted to see America. I don't think the twins should be separated."

He smiled down at Lovino briefly, sucking contentedly on his bottle, before turning back to Roderich, confident in this decision. But the Austrian was frowning.

"How is your English, Antonio?"

The Spaniard didn't waver, all sunshine and optimism. "Better than my Italian, I suppose,"

Roderich didn't buy it, and sighed deeply. He brought a hand to rub at his temple, as though dreading what he was about to say next. "You have no money. A year may buy you enough time for a plane ticket, but what about once you land? What about finding a place to stay, getting a job, taking care of Lovino? It wouldn't work, Antonio. You should stay here."

"And Lovino?" Antonio countered, "He should stay with his brother. I know what you think, but I'm not stupid. Perhaps oblivious, but I like to think I'm clever enough to make it by. Lovi and I, we'll figure it out."

Confidence. All optimism and confidence, and Roderich's frown deepened, he averted his gaze. And Antonio _wasn't_ stupid; he caught the look, and his smile dimmed somewhat, grew concerned.

"What's wrong,_ mi amigo? _Why are you so against this?"

"I agree with you, Antonio. I think the brothers should remain together." He did not look at the other as he spoke, but Antonio watched as something hardened behind his eyes, watched as some decision was reached, and he wasn't sure he liked it. "That's why… I'm contesting Romulus' will. I'm going to take Lovino with me. I want _full custody_, Antonio."

_No_.

A minute passed.

Two.

Antonio stared, expression blank and uncomprehending. Roderich stared back, mouth set and firm, and something was wrong, Antonio had misheard, this couldn't be because Roderich was his _friend_, and he hadn't just said that he wanted to take Lovino away from him and—

"What…?"

Roderich sniffed, said nothing. He didn't need to.

"Rod, you… You can't be serious," A nervous, breaking laugh, "You're joking, right? Okay, you got me. Now please… Please tell me it's a joke,"

Nothing.

Suddenly Antonio's entire weight was on the table as he leaned across it, hands coming to grip Roderich's shoulders desperately. He was causing a scene, he knew it, and he knew the servers were glaring at him, were disapproving, _everyone_ was always _disapproving_ but that was okay so long as he had Lovino, so long as Lovino was still in his arms—

"R-Rod, Roderich, please, you can't do this, please, _please_, you just can't take Lovi away from me, you can't, you just _can't_—"

Roderich forced himself to keep the gaze that was quickly filling with tears, with disbelief and horror and _betrayal_. "I apologize, Antonio." And he meant it, "But it's as you said: it's a matter of responsibility. You have no real plan, you have no money. You're sixteen, you're a street urchin. We both know you're not fit to take care of a child."

Antonio reeled back as though he'd been struck, breath coming hard and short and he swore he was choking on nothing, on everything. His limbs trembled, and Lovino made a small whimper at his guardian's clear distress.

"H-How do you know that? You're just a year older than me; you're no better," He shook his head desperately; this couldn't be _happening_. "Roderich, stop this. It's madness, it's… Roderich, you can't do this. Romulus, he – he granted separate custody, but he wanted them raised _together_,"

"Which is why I'm taking them with me."

Antonio let out a hollow, humorless laugh, desperate and more than a little hysteric, as a hand came shakily to grasp at his hair, staring at nothing before darting to Lovino, sniffling and hiccupping, reaching for him. Almost absently, the Spaniard reached out and took the small hands in his larger ones, stroking the palms and tiny fingers in gentle, soothing motions that belied his internal turmoil. His voice was soft, barely audible; green eyes, shimmering and brought out by tears, didn't leave the child before him. "He… He needs me,"

"No, Antonio. _You_ need _him_."

"And so what if I do?"

Antonio bolted out of his chair, sending the seat toppling backwards, hand tearing out of Lovino's as the child began to wail. People stopped and stared; waiters fidgeted nervously, anxious and nervous about approaching them. Antonio ignored them all, glaring at his friend with barely contained tears on his dark lashes.

"Is that so _bad_, Roderich? I need him; he's the only thing that's ever made my life worthwhile. Hell, you said it yourself – I'm a street rat, I'm _nothing_. I've never been anything until Lovino, can't you see that? He's everything to me – Lovino's my _everything_. I… I don't know what I'd do without him, Rod, please… Please, you can't take him away from me, you can't take away the only thing that matters, you can't…"

His head hung, chocolate fringe cascading into his eyes as his shoulders shook, as his knuckles gripped the table hard enough cramp them. Silence reigned as the rest of the world slowly continued on, occasionally throwing him dirty looks as they always had, because they _always_ had, but that hadn't mattered, it wasn't supposed to now, now that he had Lovino, now that he loved someone so unconditionally, now that Lovino was going to be _taken away_—

"I'm sorry, Antonio. But my decision has been made."

Another long moment, and a shaky sigh. Closed emerald eyes, a slow, accepting nod of the head. "I see. That's it, then." Without another word, the gardener dipped to scoop Lovino, still crying, from the highchair, and set his share of the bill on the table. Grabbing his purchases, he turned, began to walk away, stopped, turned again, faced his friend.

"Then be prepared, Roderich. I'm not letting him go, not just like that. I'll fight you tooth and nail to the very end, I swear to you."

And then he disappeared into the crowd, leaving Roderich to quietly finish his cold tea, appetite lost, Feliciano cooing blissfully oblivious beside him. He kept his eyes open, refusing to let his thoughts wander, because behind his eyelids all he could see was Antonio, standing there, promising a battle. Roderich had seen the strength in those shoulders, the determination in that stance, the fire in those eyes. And he had seen the pain there, and wondered if Antonio knew how terribly this was hurting him as well.

…

Antonio did not stop until he was back at the manor, and had stumbled silently past the rest of the servants, all offering concerned glances and kind words; the young man could hear none of them. At last, _at last_, he was in the garden, among greenery and flowers and growing, living things, things with hope that flourished, tomatoes that both he and his charge loved. The bags slipped from his fingers and the shoes from his feet, discarded and ignored, as both hands came to cradle Lovino, holding him close. After the boy had hushed from his outburst before, he had been surprisingly quiet, undoubtedly still catching his elder's mood.

Knees, scarred and worn, sunk slowly to the earth and rested there, eyes unfocused and glazed. The garden should have been a comfort; it was his haven, his sanctuary, but he could not feel the sunshine on his skin or the soil and grass tickling his now bare toes. All he was consciously aware of was that dull, agonizing _ache_ in his chest, the burning behind his eyes.

And the hand on his cheek.

Blinking, looking down, bright green eyes mirrored up at him, dewy tears in dewy eyes as the hand hit again, and again, and Lovino sniffled and comforted in that way of his that always brought a smile to Antonio's face. He stared down at that child now, that child so dear and precious and perfect in his arms, and felt himself begin to, at last, break down. He held Lovino close and tight, rocking back and forth, back and forth, shaking and sobbing as he wondered where it had all gone wrong.

...

**So. ANGST. Yeah. I know this isn't how it canonly goes - since in the actual story, it's Spain that's trying to get both Italys - but at least I have them fighting over custody here, shut up. This, I figure I should mention, is an important point throughout the story; I've been told that custody battles can go on for years in some cases, and yeah, this is one of those times.**

**I deeply apologize for any typos, because I've been alerted to some pretty embarrasing ones in the past, but I'm tired, guys.**

**...I really feel like I'm forgetting to say something, but it's REALLY late/early, so I'm just going to blame overtired-ness for whatever I may or may not be missing. UNTIL CHAPTER FOUR, WHICH WILL HOPEFULLY BE COMING SOON, THANK YOU ALL SO MUCH FOR YOUR AMAZING, WONDERFUL SUPPORT, I APPRECIATE AND LOVE YOU GUYS LIKE OHMYGAWD YOU HAVE NO IDEA. LIKE, TOTALLY OH MY GOD WHAT THE CRAP I'M TALKING LIKE POLAND. (THAT'S OKAY BECAUSE POLAND'S AWESOME.)**

**There was a silence**


	4. The First Birthday

**OH MY GOD I'M ALIVE. YEAH, WHO KNEW, RIGHT?**

**ALRIGHT, STRAIGHT TO THE CHAPTER. CONSIDER THIS FLUFFY PAYMENT FOR THE MINOR PUNCH IN THE GUT THAT THE LAST CHAPTER WAS, I GUESS? NOTES AT THE END, IF YOU STILL LOVE ME OR THIS STORY AT ALL, PLEASE REVIEW! (oh man guys i love capslock like you _DON'T EVEN KNOW. XD)_**

**_disclaimer: not mine!_**

**_..._**

Basic arithmetic said that four was greater than one. So it stood to reason that four skilled, mature teenagers working together with patience and care would make a parent of equal or perhaps even _greater_ stature than one singular adult.

Well, it was _supposed_ to work that way.

The theory had yet to be proven.

Mei and Maddox were currently trying to hold down the fort while Yao and Yong Soo were on their shifts at the diner. They all had to work jobs, all at different times, and all balanced more than one; at a café nearby, Mei worked as a barista on each night shift – she'd managed to guilt the owner into giving her the job – while also tutoring and babysitting kids around the neighborhood during the weekends. Maddox worked mornings of each weekday at the local supermarket as a cashier. While he was but fifteen, unlike Mei, he had a mature look about him that let him pass for older. His spot at the market was questionable – his good looks and calming presence had first landed him at customer service, but his impassive and overly mysterious demeanor had hindered that job. Stocking the shelves found him constantly bored – a subtle shift in expression that only his family could truly recognize, and therefore truly appreciate when it was time to run because a bored Maddox did not lead to pleasant places – and the cans of soup were often found arranged in different letters and messages the next morning, as well as surprise mini firecrackers hidden in the most random of places. The worst part being that they never got any video of Maddox doing any of it, no matter how hard they tried to catch him at the act. In the words of the manager, _the kid was like a goddamned ninja._

In the end, the manager put him on cashiers at full time; he was a mathematic genius, often computing faster than the ancient machines themselves, and had an efficient, silent way of bagging that always kept his isle moving. His other job, like Mei, was as a tutor – mathematics for him, while for his sister it was English – also on weekends, generally around dusk.

Currently, it was a weekend afternoon; neither had morning jobs for Saturdays or Sundays, and neither had to be at their evening occupations for a few hours. Which, of course, meant watching baby Kiku while Yao and Yong Soo earned money at the diner.

At the best of times, Kiku was a saint, a cherub – obedient, well behaved, quiet, calm. None of them had ever seen anything quite like it, and all were instantly smitten. At the _worst_ of times, Kiku was passively unresponsive. He refused to cooperate with his family, didn't eat, went boneless when any of them tried to pick him up, and just generally was a cheeky little nearly-one-year-old brat. And when all else failed, he would sniffle and cry quietly, dark round eyes filling with tears and immediately catching the hearts of all those near without question. Because he may have been under twelve months old, but the kid was no less than a diabolical _mastermind_.

Kiku was most cranky when his schedule was disrupted. As _any_ normal child would (Mei loved the sarcasm whenever she said those words), Kiku was reliant on a daily schedule that he and his caretakers had found themselves easily falling into. Naps, food, playtime, snacks… All was cemented in a clean, precise pattern, and so long as things went smoothly and according to plan, Kiku was as happy as a passive aggressive panda.

Currently, however, lunch was half an hour late.

_Dammit_.

They were really in for it now. "Dammit, Kiku, just eat the carrot mash!" Mei was sat before the highchair, the front of her shirt covered in an impressive array of baby foods and formulas. Her long hair was pulled back in a messy bun as she tried again – and quite unsuccessfully, as every time before – to coax the tiny spoon into the baby's mouth. "Do you have any idea where his panda is? He's been moodier since it disappeared and it might help now," When her brother just shrugged Mei sighed in tired annoyance and returned to trying to get her youngest sibling to eat his _goddamn lunch already_. Kiku's wide brown eyes stared the spoon down, and when finally she managed to slip it in with a shout of triumph, the pint sized Japanese boy just spat it back again, dribbling down his chin to his bib and splattering on his sister's cheek.

Mei nearly had an aneurism. "_Shiong mao niao!"_

"No swearing in front of the baby." Maddox commented mildly (and in almost undetectable amusement) from his spot by the stove across the room, currently heating milk for the unhappy child. "Monkey see monkey do."

Mei turned on him, fuming. "Oh yeah? Well you can go _gun hoe-tze bee dio-se! _How's that for monkey—oh my God, what the hell?"

Maddox had turned and squirted warm milk in his sister's face without batting an eye, face completely stoic, only the glint of mischief in his golden irises giving him away. He repeated passively, "No swearing in front of the baby."

"Maddox! I swear to God I'm going to-!"

"No fighting in front of the baby."

"You-!"

"No shouting in front of the baby."

"I – You – Just—"

"Much better."

A pause.

"I give up with you, Maddox. You feed him then,_ oh revered tranquil one_."

Maddox nodded once, satisfied with this new title, and with a straight face nudged his sister out of the way to sit calmly before Kiku, who stared challengingly back.

Mei watched on the sidelines, distractedly wiping her shirt off. It had taken her such a long time to finish this one, too; despite the lack of a proper education in the field, she had a profound sense of fashion, and she knew it. She would have liked to keep up with all the new styles and cute dresses and shoes and accessories, but was not such a fashionista to demand such things when her family was just making it by as it was. So she accepted what she got and worked with it, sewing stylish patches and patterns here and there as best she could. She was getting better with it, too; she'd gotten compliments on her clothes from the families she worked for, and even asked where she got them. Proud – a word that hadn't applied to her in a long time, that was what she was. Especially proud of this particular shirt, which she'd worked particularly hard on.

And then Kiku had to particularly spit up on it.

She wasn't even sure if that was the proper use of the word particularly, but at the moment she was irritated enough to _not particularly care_.

However, she was sure she would derive some nice vengeful satisfaction when Maddox inevitably failed and Kiku spat up in his face. She'd like to see how superiorly passive he was then, ha. It was bound to happen, no question about it. She just had to be patient.

Unfortunately, both Maddox and Kiku seemed to have infinite reserves of patience, and Mei had no idea how they did it. It was fascinating, really. In the 'boring her out of her mind yet she couldn't look away' sort of way. They simply stared each other down, neither willing to back off, the spoon hovering stationary in the air between them. It was an epic battle of wills, was what it was, and Mei was almost starting to find respect for Maddox if she hadn't known that Kiku was going to win because there was no way he would listen to Maddox and not her—

And then Kiku gave a little _hmph_ and opened his mouth.

Maddox nodded in satisfaction and slipped the spoon inside, ruffling Kiku's hair when he swallowed and opened his mouth again.

Mei stared.

No way in _hell_.

"I hate you. Just so you know."

"Mm." Maddox calmly fed Kiku another spoonful. "No hating in front of the baby."

"_Ugh_."

...

Many hours later saw the four teenagers collapsing in the apartment together. Ever since they got their jobs, the family had little time to spend all together; weekends were a reprieve, no matter how small. The schedules were just that small bit flexible enough to give the varied employees enough time to spend an hour or two together before they all passed out, exhausted, by midnight. Kiku was kind enough to sleep undisturbed through most of the night, allowing his adopted siblings the few but much needed hours of sleep they managed to get.

Tonight was different, if only in one sense of the word. The peacefully quiet night was disturbed by the eldest of the siblings, walking Kiku around the small living space. "A week from now."

Yong Soo and Mei didn't bother to look up from the used magazine they read (a deal they worked with the landlord's wife; she would give them her fairly new magazines so long as they gave her proper fashion advice). Without making eye contact, the Korean said distractedly, "A week until what?"

Yao had only managed a look one part exasperated, one part annoyed, one part disappointed and one part plain exhausted (mostly annoyed, though) before Maddox answered for him from where he constructed an elaborate castle of cardboard boxes for Kiku. "A week until the baby's first birthday."

_That_ caught attention.

"_What?_"

"_Jenjang!_ Are you sure?"

"Yes, we're sure, you incompetent brat. And watch your language," Yao snapped, scowl dissapproving. Yong Soo replied with the ever popular sticking out of his tongue. "Yes, _very_ mature. Have you any idea what you'll be getting him then?"

At this, Yong Soo smiled sheepishly. "Well, I was hoping we'd all pitch in and get him one nice, big present!"

Yao remained unimpressed. "Right. And how were you planning to pitch in, exactly?"

"...With moral support?"

Mei snorted, "Nice try," and Yong Soo stuck his tongue out at her too. He turned back to Yao, springing up and skipping over, entirely too energetic after such an exhausting work day, and blessed the small child curled in Yao's grip with a bright, loving eskimo kiss. "Well, either way, what are we getting him?"

"_We?_ I thought I just made it clear, there is no 'we' in gift giving."

"Well, no, you didn't make it clear."

"Then I am now. Kiku is getting a good life - that I _did_ make clear. A good life that has proper gifts, from each of his siblings. With thought and love behind them, understood?"

Yong Soo rolled his eyes and shoved his hands in his pockets, but nodded his agreement. Yao directed his next words at the other two. "Is that understood, you two?" Maddox gave a nearly imperceptible nod, while Mei waved a hand distractedly. The eldest only frowned, stomped over, and tore the magazine from dainty fingers. "Hey!"

"Don't 'hey' me, _mèimei_. I said answers. Do you understand?"

Mei pursed her lips. With a huff she stood as well and wrestled both Kiku and her magazine from Yao's protective grip, kissing the child's cheek when he immediatly began chewing on her hair; gross as it was, it was undeniably cute. "Yes, _mom_, I understand. Jeez, you didn't make Maddox answer verbally."

Yao gave her a look as if to say, _It's Maddox, what do you expect?_ to which Mei sighed loudly and returned the look with her own, a clear,_ point taken_.

"Uh oh," she said a moment later, and Yao was instantly on his feet again, having finally allowed himself to sit. To say the least, he was overprotective of Kiku; he loved his family, but they could be a little too excitable around a baby. A million scenarios flashed through his head to warrant an 'uh oh', and none of them were good. He knew he shouldn't trust a baby with a fourteen year old-

"Somebody's hungry!"

...Oh.

Yong Soo snickered, and Maddox nudged his ankle with a toe, mouth turned up just a hint at the corner. "Shut up," Yao muttered, fair skin blushing a delicate pink. Mei cooed, and Yong Soo's giggles upgraded to cackles. "Aw, look, he's _blushing_,"

"_Zhùkǒu!_"

The others laughed; in response, Kiku giggled quietly, and instantly all attention was aimed at him. When Mei put him on the ground, the attention seemed to make him shy, as it always did, and the boy crawled quickly behind his sister's back. With some twisting Mei managed to scoop him up and lift him high, delighted with his soft laughter. "Aw, who's my _huā_? Is my _huā _excited for his birthday?"

Yong Soo swooped in, snatching Kiku and zooming him around the apartment. "Of course he is! Who wouldn't be excited to get presents? And besides, I'm going to get him the best present. Everyone knows that the best gifts come from Korea! Isn't that right, mister yummy little _kimchi?_ I'm gonna eat you all up!"

Mei straightened at that, and Maddox scoffed at the claim; Yao just looked affronted. Yong Soo continued to 'eat' Kiku - an act which involved blowing raspberries into his stomach until the child shrieked with laughter.

"As _if!_" Mei huffed, standing again, and whacked her brother with the rolled magazine. "_Huā _is going to like my gift the best."

"Oh yeah? What makes you so sure?"

"Women's intuition!"

"You're not a _woman_! You're nothing but an annoying sister!"

"What?"

"Besides, women's intuition originated in Korea, not China, or Taiwan, or - or Hong Kong!"

Well now that was just ridiculous. Mei opened her mouth to retort, but Yao stepped in with a frown. "Enough, you two." he plucked Kiku from Yong Soo's arms, continuing to scold while impressively ignoring the child's insistant tugs on his ponytail, who had gone quiet as his siblings fought but seemed content once again. "You're setting a bad example for Kiku. He'll love all of our gifts, no need to make it a contest." He crossed the room to grab a jar of baby food, cracking the lid open and grabbing a spoon. Behind him Yong Soo and Mei continued to make faces at each other. After a few minutes of lovingly doting on the raven haired child in his arms, he added as an afterthought, "And besides, it wouldn't even _be_ much of a contest, since it's obvious that my little _xióngmāo_ would like my present the best."

The battle broke out after that, and none noticed as Maddox calmly slipped Kiku from Yao's grasp and set him loose in the completed box fort across the room. Just as the fight escalated to a three way slap-battle to the death, Maddox said in a voice that was nearly insulting in its boredom, "Then we'll make it a contest."

The cool voice of their most reserved brother seemed to resonate in the room, finally bringing the other three out of their stress-born argument. Looking over in looks that varied from surprised to curious to suspicious, Yao said slowly, "Elaborate, Maddox, what do you mean?"

Still without looking over as he vigilantly watched Kiku crawl in and out of boxes, Maddox said, "We're all confident that Kiku will like our gift the best. So we'll make it a contest. Whoever got the gift that our _bàozhú_ likes the most on his birthday will be the winner, and they won't have to do chores for a month."

After a moment's contemplation, the other three agreed, and the deal was struck. Suffice it to say, the siblings were nothing if not healthily competitive.

...

By the time February eleventh rolled around, their home was the liveliest it had been in a year. Gifts were bought with the spare cash they had. They were made with materials around the house and around the city. Just as many gifts were found strewn around the apartment, victim to friendly sabotage. By the end of the week each teen had taken to hiding their gifts, tucked safely away from the competition.

Unfortunately, money was too tight to take the day off, especially after gift-splurging. As a result the first half went about as usual, carefully coordinated schedules planned so that there was always at least one sibling available to watch over Kiku.

By ten thirty at night the last of the teens stumbled in from the cold - Yao and Maddox, as it was - carrying a small box and candles between them.

"Ooh, what's that? I want to see!" Yong Soo, who had been playing peek-a-boo with the youngest child, quickly passed him off to Mei as he scampered forward. Reaching for the box with hungry fingers, he found his vision blocked by slim fingers, quickly growing in size to-

"Ow!" Yong Soo scowled and rubbed his nose where Yao had flicked it. "What was that for?"

"The box for Kiku, for later. Not until then," as Yao wagged a disapproving finger, Maddox claimed the baby from his protesting sister, placing him carefully in the Birthday Throne of Imperial Excellence as Made in Korea, so creatively named by Yong Soo, which had been the group project of the week. The beaten up chair had been taken from a house that put their unwanted furniture on the side of the street, and was strewn in decorations ranging from homemade signs to balloons bought off little kids for a quarter to shiny things to keep Kiku entertained as he sat there.

After a moment of admiring the tiny wide-eyed child in the chair three times his size as he marveled over a set of loose keys tied to the arm rest, Mei clapped her hands, getting her brothers' attention. "Presents! It's past Kiku's bed time as it is,"

Immediately the family burst into action. One in the back of one of the cabinets, another beneath the loose floorboard. A third wedged between the ratty couch cushions, and no one knew where Maddox's came from. Before long they were gathered at Kiku's feet again, who had remained in his seat obediently, all with gifts behind their backs.

After a satisfactory dramatic pause in which they all eyed each other suspiciously, Yao said slowly, "Okay, who's first?"

"Age order, oldest first!" Mei declared loudly, grinning from ear to ear. A grumbled, "That's just because you're the youngest" was drained out by Yong Soo whooping, "That means I'm last!"

The wide smile was instantly cleared from Mei's face, replaced with a scowl. "No, _I'm _the youngest, stupid."

Yong Soo returns the expression. "Nuh _uh,_ I'm the youngest! I'm fourteen!"

"So am I!"

"There's no - wait, really?"

"Yes, and you were born in August while I was born in October. Therefore, I'm youngest!"

"Well, that's a silly idea anyway. Let's do it another way,"

"That's not fair!"

"_You're_ not fair!"

Yao whacked them both upside the head before the argument could escalate. "This is Kiku's day, not yours," he scolded, and both recoiled with grimaces. "We'll just find another way."

"Oh yeah? Do _you _have any bright ideas?"

"All right, who's back-talking me now-" Yao turned sharply to finish his parental scolding only to trip over Maddox's hunched form. Blinking in surprise, the two stared at each other for a moment, clear brown to cool gold.

And then he noticed the pointer finger pressed firmly to the tip of his nose.

"Last nose goes first!" Yao shouted, quickly putting a finger to his nose. Immediately Yong Soo slapped a hand to his face, ignoring the sting of his enthusiastic reaction, as Mei blinked in shock and scrambled to follow - a second too late.

To a chorus of cackles and friendly jeers, she grumbled a dark "fine, jerks" before she pulled out her gift: a winter coat, patched up and made both presentable and to fit him by Mei herself. The coat was a nutshell brown with a soft wool inside; clearly good quality, but containing rips and missing buttons, which was probably the reason it had been given to a thrift shop in the first place. Along the seams and holes, though, were flowers, all matching in colors of soft whites and reds, and made to resemble cherry blossoms.

"Fashionable _and_ practical." she stated proudly, buttoning Kiku up in the puffy thing and wishing him a warm happy birthday before turning and curtseying to the whisting and applauding boys. "And don't worry, Yao, I washed it four times."

Yao grinned, waving her off. "Make it five and I approve."

A short round of three way rocks-paper-scissors later that involved a lot more slapping than strictly necessary, and Maddox was kneeling before the Birthday Throne and squeezing Kiku's foot with a small smile. The child giggled and squirmed, dark eyes bright as he snuggled into his new coat. From behind his back he pulled out a colorful piece of plastic. The machine was slightly beaten up but obviously working; the shape was reminiscent of a keyboard with four multicolored keys, and when Maddox took the tiny hand within his own and pressed one, tinny but happy music began to play. A look of surprise overcame the small face, eyes growing wider as he began to press the different keys and was dazzled by the show of lights and sound.

Cheers errupted behind them as Maddox ruffled Kiku's hair and Yong Soo bounced up and began dancing to the music. After a minute or two they tugged him down and shoved him forward, still grinning, as the previous round of rock, paper, scissors dictated he be next. Leaning in with a wide smile he peppered Kisses all over Kiku's face, to which the boy laughed and shied away from. From underneath his shirt (no one knew why he hid them there and they didn't bother questioning) he withdrew a hat. Upon closer inspection, the hat had long ears and shiny eyes and a nose and whiskers, and Kiku was enraptured as Yong Soo gave it animation and life and set it to tickling the child relentlessly before at last settling it on his head. As the boy happily chewed on one of the ears, Yong Soo turned and plopped his own on his head, "Look, we match!"

The applause morphed to playful boos and Yong Soo laughed and bowed off the makeshift stage, plopping between Mei and Maddox, one of which hugged his arm as the other patted his shoulder. Finally Yao slid forward, looking Kiku in the eye for a moment before smiling softly and pressing a warm kiss to his forehead. When he pulled back Kiku was smiling, and all doubt left his mind. Slowly into Kiku's line of sight he lifted a familiar, beaten up, and much loved panda. The reaction was instantaneous. Large round eyes went globular and the baby positively squealed, reaching desperately for the plushie with a wide, gummy smile. Kiku was reserved in his joy at the best of times - this was a homerun in the terms of reactions. Just like that, all knew who'd won.

"Not fair!" Mei and Yong Soo cried at the same time, "That's not a new gift!"

"Patience," Yao said without looking away from Kiku, who was cuddling the toy and laughing and grinning from ear to ear and God, Yao had never seen anything more _beautiful_-

"We're waiting, Yao," Maddox said, the smirk bright in his eyes rather than his lips, "Dazzle us."

With a smile to his youngest brother, he carefully reached forward, laughing when Kiku squeezed the toy tighter protectively, and gently squeezed the panda's belly. Soft, soothing music began to fill the room - a lullaby, familiar yet foreign.

"...Where's that song from?" Mei asked quietly, entranced by the delicate notes still flowing from the bear.

"Japan." Yao stroked his brother's cheek lovingly, "It took a while, but I found a music box in a Japanese trinket store, and managed to mess around with it, sew in the mechanisms..." He drifted off, a soft smile gracing his lips as they all watched Kiku as he stared in wonder at his panda, before slowly, carefully pressing a little ear to it and closing his eyes to hear better. For the short while the music played, the family sat back in a state of awe and bliss, tinkling notes from home - Asia, rather than solely Japan - washing over them in gentle, nostalgic waves.

When the soft song ended, Kiku released a small yawn, rubbing his eye with one chubby fist. "Uh oh, someone's getting sleepy," Yong Soo teased, expression still tender rather than excitable, "Better get him some cake before he clocks out."

And with that the spell was broken, each feeling a little more at home in the cramped, leaky apartment than they were before, even if none would admit it.

Buzzing around again, Yao reached across for the small white box in the corner of the room, ignoring the extreme invading of his personal space by the siblings that crowded him to see. Carefully he withdrew a single, brightly colored cupcake, and the others sat back in a mixture of awe and disappointment.

"Wow, that's beautiful," Mei commented with round eyes.

"It's so _tiny!_" Yong Soo complained in return.

"It _is_ for a one year old," Yao said, deadpan, "and a full cake was far too expensive." He held the morsel out to Maddox, who had whipped out a single twisty candle and a plastic lighter. In a small burst of light, the candle came to life, sparking slightly as it was placed in the center of the pastry, and held it out to Kiku, who beheld it with awe. With a brief multilingual song - Cantonese, Mandarin and Korean - all the teens mimmicked what Kiku was to do, and before long Kiku got the hang of it. Holding it up to him, they watched in amusement as Kiku screwed up his face, took a deep breath, and blew with all his might. A loud cheer went up from all of them as the candle blew out.

The cheers died as the candle flickered to life again.

"A _sparkler_, Maddox, really?"

"Cool, I _love_ the sparkly ones!"

"Ugh, who knows how many times poor Kiku's going to have to do this-"

For a moment the Japanese boy's eyes widened in surprise, before he tried to blow it out again. His smile froze as it burst into light a third time, confusion taking his features. Three more attempts passed before his older siblings began pitching in, and five tries after that until it finally blew out for good. The cheer then was double in volume, and in celebration they each took a small bite of the cupcake once Kiku was done trying to shove most of it into his mouth, half of it smearing on his face.

Twenty minutes later and they were all in bed - it was a full day of work tomorrow, and they needed their rest. The next day would see them rushing about desperately when they missed the alarm, Kiku's breakfast arrived fifteen minutes late, and they had to deal with angry bosses and a passive aggressive charge all day.

But for the short twenty minutes the night before, they danced to the lively tunes of Maddox's gift, played peek-a-boo with Kiku in his new hat, and tickled him through the warm fabric of his coat - and then each other in the most epic of all tickle fights ever, as declared by Yong Soo. And when they finally drifted off, it was to the soft lullaby playing in Kiku's arms.

...

**TWO HOURS LATE. T.T _UGH_. THAT IS SO UPSETTING. I'm really sorry, guys. But it's here, and I really hope you liked it! I couldn't think of much way to fit in any angst for this, and honestly, I wasn't really sure what to do for the Asia gang - I'm not used to writing them, so it ended up mostly just a big ball of fluff. I dunno what happened with all those nicknames; I just thought it would be really cute if they all had their own name for him, which will stick as he grows up: **

**Mei calls him flower, Yong Soo calls him kimchi (which is about the only Korean dish I know and yeah it really probably doesn't make sense but I thought it was cute so shut up) (oh and if I spelt it or anything else wrong I deeply apologize, feel free to correct me), Yao calls him panda, and Maddox calls him firecracker.**

**Milestone here, if you coudn't guess, was first birthday. I know what the next milestone will be, and spoiler alert, it's a big one, so I've been planning this one to have all perspectives in a big ol' chapter, so be excited! XD Please feel free to offer your own milestones if you've got them, I always like to hear from you and I'll definitely take it into consideration! Since it's summer, this story will be picking up in pace again, so I hope you're all as excited as I am.**

**As a final note, yeah, I'm pretty certain you can't convert a music box into a squeeze panda player thing, but I couldn't think of the proper way to make it happen and it was cute in my head. SO DEAL WITH IT.**

**Thanks for sticking with me so long; I know it must have been frustrating. If you liked it, please tell me in a review! I am shameless enough to beg for them, this shouldn't surprise you.**

**silence**

**(PS THING! Anyone who can spot the Disney quote gets ALL OF THE LOVE. ALL OF IT. XD)**

**(PPS THING! OH MY GOD, ONE LAST THING. Mei's curses in the beginning? They're really funny and make literally no sense when translated, but they're not supposed to. They are, however, actually from something - a TV show. The first person that tells me what show the curses are from gets a oneshot if they'd like it, free of charge. For whoever cares, good luck! XD)**


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